Sins of the Daughter, Sins of the Son
by Kurt1K
Summary: After the trials of the Money Pit, Siegfried has a chance to recuperate... unless Ivy has anything to say about it. And - of course - she does...
1. Discovery

**_SINS OF THE DAUGHTER, SINS OF THE SON_**

Chapter One: _ Discovery_

By Kurt1K

Giancarlo Batistelli braced his feet wide apart, knuckles white where he gripped the handrail as he squinted into the driving rain. The world pitched steeply as his cherished _Bravura was lifted bodily by the seas heaving beneath her, and then dropped steeply into the trough beyond.  He could hear the schooner's timbers groan under the hammering of the seas, the sails straining at the rigging as though they were wild horses tethered against their will._

He _loved_ it.  Never did he feel more alive than when sailing in weather like this.  Batistelli had been a man of the sea all his life, a sailor from a family of sailors, and to his mind this was what it was all about:  looking sea and storm in the eye, and seeing who blinked.  Being able to judge when one _had_ to blink was the key, a skill that had kept him alive through fifty years of storms and high seas.  This storm, he knew, had all but spent itself; his crew and his ship were more than a match for it.  In a few moments they would round Cap Corse, the northern tip of Corsica, and reach safer waters in the island's lee.  

Which meant that he had time for other, less pleasant, considerations.  Catching the eye of his first mate he beckoned the man over. 

"Looks like we've bested it, Gianni!"  Marc Rousseau shouted as he made his way across the swaying deck with the easy grace that marked everything he did.  Batistelli grinned at him, nodding assent as the Frenchman joined him on the quarterdeck, "Not bad, Marc, we'll make a sailor out of you yet!"

Rousseau grinned back, brushing unruly locks of black hair from his face.  "Not likely," he shot back, "I still prefer women to boys!"

Batistelli snorted a laugh, "In _that case my young friend, I have just the task for you."_

Rousseau's expression shifted from amusement to curiosity, the new mood lasting barely a second before transforming into alarm. Raising his hands before him he edged away, "Ah, no no no-"

Batistelli clapped him heartily on the shoulder, nodding sagely over the younger man's protests. "Ah _si_, my friend.  The lady was quite clear on the matter; she was to be told as soon as we rounded the cape."

"Send one of the men-"

"For shame, Marc, would you insult our noble passenger by sending her a deckhand?"  Batistelli tutted, enjoying the moment, "No, that will not do."

Rousseau's eyes narrowed as he caught Batistelli's smirk.  "Well, then why do _you not attend her, Gianni?"_

"Why?" Batistelli chuckled as he turned back to the rail, "Because I am as unmanned by her as you are, of course.  Fortunately for _me, I am also the captain – and so it falls to you."_

Rousseau had no answer for that beyond a scowl and a heartfelt curse.  Muttering further imprecations about the captain's sexual preferences, family tree and general character to himself, he stumped down the companionway to what was usually the captain's cabin.  He managed to derive some minor satisfaction from the thought that Batistelli himself had surrendered his personal quarters to their passenger, albeit for a handsome fee.  As the door loomed before him, however, the comfort the thought provided was fleeting.

_Come **on, Marc**_, he berated himself, _she's just a **woman, for the love of God.  Combing his fingers through his damp hair he squared his shoulders and rapped smartly on the door.**_

A moment later he heard the bolt snap back.  Hesitantly he edged forward, pushing the door open.  His voice sounded much more confident than he felt as he called out, "Madame? Excuse me?"

As he opened the door fully he espied the room's occupant facing him over the map table which dominated the far end of the cabin.  The only light came from a single lantern above her, a pool of illumination which cast her face into shadow under the snow-bright gleam of her impossible hair.  Several bulky tomes were spread across the tabletop, her quill scribing notes in one while her other hand traced slowly across another.  Hesitantly he advanced, his eyes flickering across what little he could see of the rest of the room, his mind suddenly filled with memories of the crews' whispered gossip about strange noises filtering through the ship in the night.  He had been quick to laugh them off, assuring the men that they were allowing their imaginations to run wild, but alone in the gloomy cabin with the swaying lantern casting crazy shadows across the walls he felt a good deal less cocky.  

He was halfway across the room when the quill ceased its scratching and he felt her eyes upon him.  He froze in his tracks, feeling absurdly like a small animal confronted by a watchful serpent.  For a long moment the only sound was the groan of the hull and the distant thunder of the seas outside.

"Well?" Her tone was irritated.  "Are you just going to stand there?"

"Ah, no, Madame, please excuse me," Rousseau bowed apologetically, "but you asked to be told when we passed Cap Corse.  Uh, and we have."  He winced at the clumsy phrasing, but she merely nodded before lowering her gaze to the pages before her.  Her reply was brisk and dismissive: "Tell your captain I will speak with him shortly."

Rousseau bowed again and turned to leave, doing his best to conceal his relief.  Barely had he closed the door when he heard the bolt slide home.  The young sailor stared at the closed door for a moment, then turned and with considerable effort managed not to run back up the companionway to the stairs.  All the effort he could muster, however, could not erase the conviction that the Englishwoman had still been sitting at the table as the bolt worked of its own accord.

Rain and seawater greeted him as he emerged on deck, a distraction for which he was immensely grateful.  The storm was losing strength rapidly, he noted, making his way to where Batistelli was speaking with Mancuso, the helmsman.  The captain turned to greet him, grinning tightly.

"So you return from the den of the wolf, Marc."  He cast an appraising eye over the younger man, "And you seem well and whole."

Rousseau returned the smile a little halfheartedly, "Whole at least," he muttered, "I swear there is something unnatural about that… woman."

Batistelli's grin faded and he glanced sideways at Mancuso, but the burly helmsman appeared not to have heard the exchange.  With a tilt of his head he signaled Rousseau to join him at the railing overlooking the main deck.

"The crew makes enough rumours without you adding to them," the captain said, barely audible over the crash of the sea.  Rousseau shifted uncomfortably.

"I apologize, Gianni, you're right.  But still…"

"I know," Batistelli sighed, "but she pays _very_ well, and what has she really done?  Kept out of the way in the grand cabin-"

"And come up on deck on clear nights," Rousseau interjected, "I think that is what really scares the men - I mean, a woman using an astrolabe?  Who has ever heard of such a thing?" 

Batistelli smiled grimly and nodded, but did not reply.  Unlike Rousseau he had seen the instruments in question at close quarters one evening, and they were far more intricate than a navigator's astrolabe and quarter.  He had approached a little closer for a better look and she had turned to him, her expression faintly challenging as though daring him to ask what they were; he had not, and she had turned back to her work with a scornful smile.  He had not spoken to anyone of his observations; better his crew believe her interest in the stars was that of a dilettante navigator rather than… whatever it _was.  _

"Who indeed?" he agreed, "It is strange, yes.  But not dangerous."

Rousseau shrugged reluctant agreement.  A moment later he grunted in surprise, stiffening.  Batistelli followed his eyes and tensed slightly as he made out the cloaked figure emerging onto the deck.  Two crewmen at work nearby edged away as she swept past them, casting furtive glances at her back.  The first mate chuckled humourlessly.

"I forgot, she said she would come to speak with you."

Batistelli sighed and straightened as the woman ascended the steps to the quarterdeck, bowing stiffly as he greeted her, "Good evening, Signora."  

The woman acknowledged him with a slight tilt of her hooded head.  "Captain Batistelli," she replied neutrally, "I understand that we shall arrive in Bastia shortly."

"Yes, Signora, that is correct.  We should put in within two hours."

She nodded, then raised her head to study the stormy sky.  Batistelli and Rousseau exchanged glances, the captain dismissing his first mate with a slight twitch of his head.  As the Frenchman moved away Batistelli turned his attention back to his passenger whose face was still uplifted, her expression unreadable, and waited patiently.

Perhaps a minute passed before she spoke again.  "I should need to be ashore for no more than four or five days, Captain," as she spoke she lowered her gaze to his face, "however, my business may take longer than anticipated.  In that event-"

"We shall wait for you as I have already agreed, Signora."  Batistelli said gruffly.  Though he could not deny that he was intimidated by the Englishwoman, he had his pride; he did not like his word being questioned. "You do not need to concern yourself with that."

She did not speak in reply, merely nodding again and turning to look out over the deck.

Batistelli opened his mouth to speak and then closed it, half-turning away.  He took a step towards the wheel, where Mancuso was watching the two of them while trying not to look like it, and stopped again.  After a moment he turned back to the woman, his expression determined.

"Forgive me Signora Valentine, but if I may trouble you once again?"

Her only response was a slight turn of her head towards him.  Taking the gesture as an invitation to continue he did so doggedly.

"Signora, Corsica can be a dangerous place, especially Bastia.  I… would not feel comfortable allowing you to venture ashore unescorted.  Please, Signora, if I might send some of my men to escort you while ashore?"

As he spoke the woman stiffened and turned the full weight of her attention upon him.  Batistelli folded his arms across his thick chest and met her gaze pugnaciously.  _If she laughs, he thought, _then___ she laughs.  _I have said what I felt I must_.  It was ironic, he knew – even absurd - to offer an escort to a woman who was, he felt sure, more dangerous and perhaps more malevolent than any of Bastia's dockland thugs.  The Englishwoman was almost of an age with his eldest daughter, however, and his conscience had stirred from comfortable apathy as it occasionally did.  He could not leave the matter unvoiced._

After a moment she seemed to relax, if only slightly.  In the reflected lamplight a faint, bitter smile touched her lips.

"Your offer is very kind, Captain," she replied, her voice strangely neutral.  Turning away again she continued, her tone once again cool, "but do not waste your concern upon _me; I neither desire, nor require it.  All I need from you is some information."_

Though stung by her tone, Batistelli nodded curtly. "I will tell you what I can."

"Oh, it's simple enough.  I will need accommodation ashore."

"There is an inn, the Red Hart," Batistelli replied promptly, "It is popular with the wealthier merchants and nobles who pass through."

"Very good.  I shall leave a trunk by my door when I go ashore; have it delivered there.  Now more importantly, I want to know how to find the dirtiest, cheapest, most scum-infested excuse for an inn in Bastia."

Batistelli blinked.  Was she mocking his concern?

"I'm quite serious, I assure you," she continued, as though reading his mind, "I assume you possess this information."

"_Si_, I know," the captain said slowly, "I suppose the Albatross, in the Terra Vecchia, is perhaps most… qualified, in your terms.  If you are _seeking danger, that is where you would best begin.  But the Albatross-"_

"I know," she cut him off irritably, "It is precisely the sort of place a lady should avoid, yes?  Again, captain, spare your concern for those who need it.  Just direct me there."

Batistelli gritted his teeth, his mind made up.  If she would not accept his offer he would do what he had to do _without_ her knowledge.

"Of course, Signora."

****

Alastair Mackay was having a bad day.

The young Scot considered himself rather an authority on the subject of bad days – having had, in his life, what he considered to be an overabundance of them – and this one was, in his personal opinion, rather high on the scale and thoroughly deserving of the title.

It had started promisingly enough, waking alongside a pretty local lass named Benvenuta, but had rapidly devolved with the appearance of the girl's irate (and large) family and her large (and irate) husband-to-be.  The resulting fracas had ended in his rather hurried departure from the family home, leaving most of his clothes and money behind.

His flight had been successful in that he eluded the sound beating the family had intended for him, but in his haste he had stumbled into a part of the Terra Vecchia district which was currently contested between two rival criminal gangs.  There had followed a rather tense meeting with a half-dozen heavies who were convinced he was a spy for their enemies – why a spy would be running around in a half-fastened shirt and little else was apparently not a question that troubled them – which had perhaps inevitably resulted in _more_ running for his life, interspersed with periods of _hiding_ for his life.  A lifetime's experience with such activities had stood him in good stead, though, and by mid-afternoon he had crawled safely into his room at the Albatross.

In the weeks he had spent in Bastia he had come to rather like the Albatross, as inns went; it was _very_ cheap, and the man who ran it didn't ask questions.  Indeed, he seemed eager to have as little to do with his patrons as possible.  It had its problems; his room was ill-smelling, squalid and leaky and the bed could double as a louse farm, but to Mackay these were minor considerations.  It was a place to sleep and it was cheap, leaving him more money for the important things - such as last night when he had wined and dined young Benvenuta at the much more elegant Olive Tree.

Unfortunately, with most of his wealth abandoned in his hasty flight that morning, he no longer had that luxury.  Nevertheless, refusing to let the setback stymie him for long, he had swiftly determined an appropriate course of action:  a skilful application of his card-playing talents should rebuild his fortunes.  Eager to begin, and mindful of his limited means, he had decided to start by fleecing the patrons of the Albatross.

Looking back, he supposed _that had been his real mistake.  He knew what sort of patrons the Albatross attracted; he had seen and had dealings with their type in every town and city he had passed through in his travels, from his native Edinburgh to Marseille.  The men who frequented the inn were not the type to take losing in their stride, particularly to a stranger, but he had been so smugly pleased with his winning streak that he had blithely ignored the early warning signs and kept right on winning until one of his opponents accused him of cheating.  It was then that he realized that in his eagerness he had left his pistols in his room._

He had protested his innocence vigorously.  That he was now backed up against the wall with a brawny forearm pressed across his throat and the tip of a dagger tickling his belly was, he felt, a clear indicator of the locals' ingrained prejudice against outsiders… perhaps bolstered by indignation at finding an inordinate number of face cards on his person.  

_Yes_, Mackay thought, darkness starting to dance across his vision, _it's been a **very** bad day._

His hearing was fading too, or so he thought when the murmurs of the onlookers faded.  It was strange, he thought detachedly, that he could still hear the harsh breathing of his captor quite clearly.  Not until he heard the clear jingle of coins from behind the Corsican did he realize that there was a different explanation for the sudden silence.

His assailants had also noticed.  The pressure on his throat eased and the pricking of the dagger vanished as the man pinning him – Arnolfo, one of the others had called him – half turned.  Mackay craned his head even as he gulped for air, catching a glimpse of platinum hair - the first really welcome thing to have happened in the long day.

"What the hell do _you_ want?"  That was Mateo, the man who had first accused him – a lean, hawk-nosed Sardinian with a scarred face and a smile that never reached his eyes.

"I want my servant back."  Her tone brooked no argument; to Mackay she sounded like an angel, come to deliver him from evil.  Arnolfo's grip loosened further in instinctive obedience.

Mateo, it seemed, was not so easily handled.  "I'm not done with him.  Now-"

Coin clattered on wood and Mateo stopped in mid-sentence.  Arnolfo released Mackay completely and took a step away, his eyes – along with those of the rest of the inn – on the table they had been playing at.  Mackay, edging past him, couldn't blame them; the half-dozen coins the woman had thrown onto the rough wood were worth six months' earnings to any of them.  Mateo's tongue flicked across his lips as he eyed the coins, but as Mackay moved into view the Sardinian's gaze flicked to him and his expression hardened.

"He cheated us," he said flatly.  Mackay's heart sank; he recognized the man's tone.  This would not end without violence.

Lady Isabella strode forward past the rather dumbfounded Arnolfo to stand before the Scot. "_Did he." she murmured frostily.    Mackay looked up at her – he had forgotten how __tall she was – and, shrugging, gave her his best sheepish smile._

He just had time to notice her lips curl into a sneer before a gloved fist smashed into the side of his face hard enough to knock him off his feet.  Barely had he hit the floor when a boot slammed into his midsection, folding his body around it and driving every scrap of breath from his lungs.

Lady Isabella wrenched her foot back as Mackay, curled into the foetal position, gasped for air.  He heard her hard-soled boots click on the floor as she stepped away.

"Satisfied?"

After a moment's silence Mateo burst into laughter.  Mackay was sure that for once the Sardinian's smile _did_ reach his eyes.  "_Most_ satisfied, my lady."  Wood creaked as Mateo sat down heavily, still laughing.  Even from his position the Scot could feel the tension easing.  "He is yours, with my compliments.  Arnolfo, pick him up."

Mackay was hauled upright, a stance he found some difficulty in maintaining.

"He looks a little unsteady, signora," Mateo chuckled, "Perhaps you would care to share a drink while he recovers?"

"I think not." the woman replied coldly.  "You two - make yourselves useful."

****

Rousseau started as the Englishwoman looked directly at him and Mercolino.  For a moment he wondered if it was simply a coincidence, but her next words extinguished that hope rather abruptly.

"I do not like to be kept waiting, Mr. Rousseau."   She spoke softly, but the menace behind the words was unmistakable.  Rousseau glanced at Mercolino, who looked a little pale in the lamplight, and nodded reluctantly.  The two sailors picked their way through the crowd to face her and she indicated Mackay with a toss of her head before drawing her deep hood over it.  Rousseau in turn signaled Mercolino to help the man - who was looking decidedly queasy - preferring to remain unencumbered with his weapons in easy reach.  Although he had to admit that the woman had handled the situation with rather deft brutality he knew that the crowd's mood could easily shift again.  From Raoul's wary glances he could see his shipmate knew it too, and he did not doubt that the woman was equally aware; dealing with thugs was evidently not a new experience for her.

She did not wait for them, sweeping towards the door while they struggled in her wake.  Rousseau let Mercolino pass with the injured man and brought up the rear, doing his best to be casual about it.  So intent was he on the crowd that he almost didn't notice the other men stop abruptly.

"What's wrong?" he hissed, feeling every eye upon them.

"He wants us to get his bag from his room," Mercolino whispered urgently.  Rousseau rolled his eyes unbelievingly.

"_Forget_ it!  He should be glad he's getting out at all!"

"I need m'bag," Mackay mumbled faintly, his Italian heavily accented though clear enough.  "Something… lady's gonna want something in it."

Rousseau shook his head and withheld a curse.  A glance around the room told him he needed to act quickly, if at all.  "Where is it?"

"Upstairs… first door on your left," rasped Mackay, some of the strength back in his voice.

Rousseau made a dash up the stairs, mentally crossing himself as he went.  _I must be out of my mind, he thought wryly as he tugged the door open.  Even in his hurry he couldn't help but be taken aback by the squalor of the room, but he gritted his teeth and swept the few belongings on the bed into the bag on the floor, shouldering the lot and hurrying back downstairs._

To his relief his passage through the barroom was barely noticed; the entertainment over, the patrons had gone back to their tables and their drinks.  There was no sign of the others, and he hastened out the door into the rain and the darkness.

****

By the time the small party reached the end of the street Mackay had recovered enough to walk unassisted.  He probed his face gingerly, wincing as his tongue found a loosened tooth which would probably work free in the next day or two.  He supposed he should feel lucky that the punch hadn't smashed his jaw, which he knew from personal observation she was well capable of.  On the other hand, she hadn't hesitated to give him the point of her boot when she kicked him.  She had no doubt saved him from a much worse beating – if not death – but he rather wished she had found a less painful way.  

Straightening, he gave a nod of thanks to the heavyset man who had been supporting him and thrust out his hand.  "Alastair Mackay."

"Raoul Mercolino," the other replied, shaking hands briefly.

"Marc Rousseau," said the third man, drawing level with them and tossing Mackay his battered leather shoulder bag.  Mackay nodded thanks, taking the opportunity to assess the man.  _French by his accent, a sailor by his garb, and too good-looking by half, was his initial conclusion.  Still, the fellow had gone for his bag, so that counted in his favour.  The other, Mercolino, was bigger and heavier but clearly deferred to the Frenchman – who in turn deferred to Lady Isabella, but __that was hardly a surprise._

That thought turned Mackay's attention to the lady in question, striding ahead so swiftly that her heavy traveling cloak billowed behind her.  Fumbling in his bag he hastened to catch her up, his fingers closing about what he sought just as he reached her.

"M'lady..?"

She did not slow her pace, forcing Mackay to keep trotting to keep up with her.

"I do not want to hear your excuses, Mr Mackay.  I pay you for information; I do_ not pay you to get yourself knifed in a tavern before passing your information on.  This had better not turn out like Mont St Michel."_

Mackay winced; of course she would bring _that debacle up.  This was his chance to redeem that mistake, he reminded himself… assuming he hadn't gotten it wrong…_

Shaking off the momentary doubt he proffered the cloak-pin.  She swept it from his hand, stopping in the pool of light streaming from a nearby window to examine the piece.  The polished silver sparkled in the soft light as she tilted and turned it, before closing her fist about it.

"Where did you find this?"  Her irritation was tempered by curiosity, which Mackay took as an excellent sign.

"It was pawned here in Bastia about six months ago," he replied, trying valiantly not to sound _too_ smug.  "The fellow it belonged to lives in the hills not thirty miles from here."

She opened her fist again, the cloak-pin gleaming in her palm, and regarded it for a long moment before turning to him.

"Well," she said softly, "It appears I was right not to break your jaw after all.  Go on."

"He came ashore in Calvi… uh, almost a year ago now.  Headed straight up into the hills, lived up there ever since.  I couldn't find out a lot, but it seems he just keeps to himself.  Guess he hunts some, because sometimes he comes down an' sells pelts, sometimes firewood.  He's pawned a few things too, weapons and such.  Spends all the money on booze.  They say he's a bit out of his head, though.  Dangerous.  Say even the local brigands won't go within ten mile o' his cabin any more." Mackay grinned weakly as he finished his report, waiting nervously for her response in spite of his certainty that he had found what she wanted.

Abruptly she nodded.  "Very good, Mr Mackay."  Turning away she tossed a small pouch to him, its jingle comforting music to his ears.  "I assume you can find this cabin you speak of.  Arrange mounts and a cart and attend me at the Red Hart in the morning.  As for you two, thank your Captain Batistelli for his concern and perhaps suggest he send nobody else after me that he is not prepared to lose."  With that she swept away, leaving the three men silent in her wake.

Mackay turned to the two sailors, his spirits buoyant. "So lads, what do you say the three of us find somewhere we can put our feet up and knock back a few?"

They looked at him as though he were out of his mind, but he didn't care; he was alive, he had money and best of all, he was more or less back in the Lady's favour.

It had been a _good_ day.

****

Wakefulness came grudgingly to the man, one eye cracking open only to flinch shut again.  Late morning sunlight was filtering through the larger gaps in the rickety wall and roof to dapple the floor, or at least the debris that littered it.  Sometime during the night the rains had stopped, leaving only a few puddles on the floor in silent testament to the dubious state of the roof.

Reluctantly he half-rolled onto his side, reaching the edge of his narrow cot.  The movement brought his face into the sunlight and even with his eyes closed it sent bright daggers of pain lancing through his skull.  Groaning, he raised one arm to shield his face, wondering blearily just why he kept doing this to himself.

He knew the answer, of course, even before he asked the question; when he drank, he did not dream.

He tried to shuffle the thought away, but it lingered as it always did.  In his introspection it took him several moments to identify the snort of a horse outside, and even longer to process the implications.

He was still working through the latter process when the door smashed inwards, the old wood splintering.  With reflexes honed by grueling experience he rolled out of his cot only to find that all the experience in the world can be overcome by sufficient application of alcohol.  His legs folded beneath him and he dropped heavily to the floor, the world spinning about him.

A hand closed on the back of his shirt and he was half-carried, half-dragged across the cluttered floor and out into the light.  He tried to resist then, struggling in an effort to escape the pitiless brilliance of the sun, but his captor was relentless and he was still too hung over to make much of a fight of it.

His progress forward came to a halt ten feet past the door when the other released him abruptly, depositing him face-first in a puddle of muddy rainwater.  Choking and sputtering he flipped onto his back, grimacing as the sunlight hit him full in the face and rolling further onto his side.

He was vaguely aware of the light crunch of footsteps circling him, the light dimming as a shadow fell across him.  He let one eye open a crack, taking in the figure as it stood above him.

"It is time to awaken, Herr Schtauffen."

The voice was cool, disdainful and horribly, _horribly familiar.  It was a voice he sometimes heard in his darkest dreams, when memories his own and yet not his own held him writhing in their irresistible grasp._

He scrabbled backwards, ignoring the pain in his head as he tried again to get to his feet only to have his legs falter yet again.  "_Nein_!" he croaked, crawling desperately away from her, "No! Stay away!  It's _finished_!  I am _done_ with that cursed blade, done with all of it!"

She paced after him unhurriedly, effortless in her superiority.  One gloved hand drew something from under her cloak and he stopped in his flight, staring at the object in peculiar fascination in spite of his fears.  It was nothing – a small lacquered box, no larger than her palm, fashioned in dark wood with a strangely carved surface– but it caught his eye as though it were a priceless jewel.  As she knelt beside him he whispered, "What _is that?"_

In response she snapped the box open and-

**_BLOOD…_**

The voice roared in his head, louder even than the screams, drowning out the world.  He was _blinded by the sound, fire blazing through his veins, power coursing through his body.  He opened his eyes and before him was a wasteland ravaged by his own hand.  He surveyed the scorched land with horror and hideous exultation even as the terrible power coursing through his body wracked it with pain, twisting bone and melting flesh to remake him in its image; he was screaming, screaming soundlessly, the sound lost among the roar of the fires he had set consuming the world -_

As suddenly as it had begun the vision – memory – faded and he slumped nervelessly to the ground, every muscle in his body aflame.  By contrast his head was oddly clear, his senses sharp and alive.

Ivy straightened from his side, slipping the little box – now closed again – back into its pouch.  She was little more than a black silhouette against the sun, her hair a brilliant halo as she looked down at him.

"You may wish to be done with it, Herr Schtauffen" she said softly, "but - clearly - Soul Edge is not done with **you."**

*******

Author's Notes:  This fic has been knocking around my head in one form or another for about three years (since I got Soul Calibur on the Dreamcast, anyway).  I'm delighted to be finally putting it onto (virtual) paper.  It was inspired by a single piece of art from the game's Art Gallery…

The story is, at its heart, a romance (Ivy/Siegfried), but as you can probably tell it's going to take a while to get there and it's not going to be an easy road.  Not all of the game's characters will appear, but several have important parts to play (can you tell an Ivy story without Cervantes?).

In any case, I'm probably just talking to myself by now, so I'll wrap up.  Hope you enjoyed, and as anyone who's ever posted a story will know, feedback is the stuff of life.  Take care, and hope to see you next chapter!


	2. Unblessed Souls

SINS OF THE DAUGHTER, SINS OF THE SON

Chapter 2:  _Unblessed Souls_

By Kurt1K

Mackay eyed the young German watchfully, fingers idly drumming on the grip of one of the pistols in his belt.  He had been on the man's trail for over a year now, and nothing he had learned in that time inclined him to let his guard down no matter how low he appeared to have fallen.  

Schtauffen looked to be about his own age with a broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped build evident even in the loose linen shirt and weather-stained leather breeches he wore.  Hair which was probably golden when it wasn't matted and filthy fell almost to his waist, and he wore a beard that hadn't been trimmed for months (and then roughly).  All in all he looked more the crazed hermit than the professional mercenary – and worse – that he was rumoured to be.  

The German rose slowly to his feet, eyes narrowed against the sunlight.  He was about Mackay's height or a little taller, which still gave Lady Isabella almost half a head on him.  She was watching the man appraisingly, and from what Mackay knew of her it was evident that the appraisal was not favourable.  Schtauffen seemed to pay her no heed as he turned and started to make his way a little unsteadily down the wooded slope towards the small stream which ran some hundred yards from his shack.  Lady Isabella gave Mackay a look which needed no explanation – _Stay there_ – as she descended after him.

Mackay watched until she vanished from sight, one foot tapping nervously as he debated the wisdom of following them.  In the end his sense of chivalry yielded the field to the combined forces of common sense and self-preservation, and with a sigh he settled in to wait.

****

He was aware of her presence as he descended the slope, could feel those cold eyes on his back.  Determinedly ignoring her, he dropped to his knees by the softly tinkling stream and dunked his head in its cold, clear waters.

Though he had been more or less clearheaded since his exposure to whatever it was she had in that little box – and though a part of him knew just what it was, the rest refused for now to acknowledge it – he welcomed the startling cold of the water, purging the remaining fog from his mind and leaving… questions.

_Many_ questions.

"I would imagine that you have questions," the Englishwoman said almost conversationally.  He took the time to scoop a cupped handful of water to his lips and gargle it before spitting it onto the ground.  Wiping his mouth off he turned his head to regard her out of the corner of one eye; she was settling herself on a mossy boulder a few yards upstream.  If she found the seat uncomfortable – and he couldn't imagine that she did not - she didn't show it.  

"What _was_ that?" he asked softly.  Her eyes narrowed.

"You _know_ what it was, Herr Schtauffen."

He stood up, turning to face her fully.  "I know what it _felt like, but it can't be what it…" he paused, taking a deep breath, "It can't be."_

Ivy shrugged.  "If you say so."  She reached into the folds of her cloak and withdrew the box again.  Siegfried took a reflexive step towards her, his expression horrified.

She watched his reaction, twirling the box in her fingers.  When she spoke the smugness in her voice was undisguised.  "Your _mind may tell you that it's impossible, Herr Schtauffen," she almost whispered, "but you know it's true.  In your heart, you know it."_

She smiled scornfully, "You should _always listen to your heart, you know."_

Siegfried took a moment to try to compose himself, suddenly aware that he was short of breath and sweating heavily.  In spite of her arrogance, he knew Ivy was right.  It _was the Soul Edge – _well_, he supposed, _a fragment of it in any case_.  He felt ill, nauseous.  _Is it happening again_?_

"_How_?" he croaked, sitting down heavily.  Ivy's eyes fell to the box, still rotating in her fingertips.

"You were there at the end." she replied, "_You should be able to tell __me."_

Unbidden, his thoughts flashed back to the fragmented memories of the end of the nightmare.  Out of habit and instinct he flinched away from the recollections, but gathering his will forced himself to focus on them.

He remembered the battle, though it was so difficult to distinguish it from the many that had preceded it.  He had stood at the head of an army of horrors, the battlefield a wasteland under skies heavy with smoke.  It… _he_ had carved a bloody trail through the armies of the Margraves of Brandenburg, Saxony and Thuringia, feeling the roar of the power surging through his blade – through him_self_ – as it feasted on the souls of the slain.  The memories, though strangely disjointed, were so vivid he could _feel the weight of the cursed blade, __scent the tang of blood in the air, _hear_ the endless, mingled roar of battle._

He remembered the Soul Edge, exultant as finally, _finally its seemingly endless thirst was slaked.  Then, his own will – the desire which had driven him to seek out the accursed thing in the first place – had surged to the fore, and he had bent the power to his own purpose if only for a moment.  He had summoned a vision of his father… and had, in that awful instant, understood the truth – about his father's murder, about his quest, about himself and what he had allowed himself to become.  _

Recoiling from that horrific realization and filled with disgust at himself and his own deeds, he had wrestled against the demon sword's malignant will as the battle stormed about them.

As he faltered his army seemed to falter with him, even as new strength came to their enemies in the form of a handful of warriors whose might gave the German soldiers new hope and who did not quail in the face of the lizardmen and other abominations which formed his forces.  Some he had vaguely recognized, even through his torment; others were strangers to him.  Two, however, had drawn his attention – or rather, his blade's:  he had felt a wild rush of hatred and rage as Soul Edge's great eye fell upon the two women – one fair, one dark – and the sword's strength, fueled by its fury, had redoubled.  Siegfried had felt his soul swept under the black sea of Soul Edge's hatred and Nightmare, wearied from the struggle but once again in the iron grip of his blade's will, had turned towards the two

It was then that the three warriors reached him, cleaving through his horde from the south towards his position.  With a roar his monstrous ally Astaroth had charged to the attack, but one of the three had met his charge with ferocity belying his extravagant garb.  The others had cut down the half-dozen lizardmen around the giant and made straight for Nightmare.

Even wearied from his inward struggle the azure knight was a terrible foe, but his opponents were skilled, swift and utterly determined.  Either one he might have bested, but together they kept him from gaining the initiative, prevented him from capitalizing on any advantage, and gradually wore him down.  It was a ringing head blow from the youth's staff that put him down, stunned and helpless, and a flick of the girl's slender blade that separated Soul Edge from his numbed grasp.

That separation – such a little thing, but something beyond his own strength – had freed his mind and soul almost entirely from the blades shadowy will. His mind was suddenly clear, as though waking from a long dream – or nightmare, of course.  Though barely conscious, his senses – once again his own – were startlingly clear.  He could still feel the sword, but now it seemed that _it_ was the dream, his own perceptions the reality.  He felt the blade unleash the power of the souls it had consumed to manifest the blazing figure which was its true form.

_Inferno_.  The demon's name echoed in Schtauffen's mind as it rose over the battlefield, glorying in its newfound freedom and eager to bring ruin on a scale he as Nightmare had never approached.

He heard the girl's challenge, sensed the shift in power as her blade revealed its own true nature to Inferno.  He felt recognition, and then – _impossible - a shiver of fear from the hellish creature.  _

Before their battle had begun, the wounds he had sustained finally overcame his newly-mortal body and he slipped – not ungratefully – into unconsciousness.

He had awakened to kind green eyes and gentle hands, but that pain was in some ways worse than the rest and his mind shrank from the memory.  He was certain that wasn't what Ivy had been referring to, anyway.  

What _had_ she meant?  He replayed the events in his mind, but he could see nothing there to explain her assertion.  He shook his head slowly. "I don't… I don't know what you mean." He sighed, his face dropping into his hands.  "The sword was taken… I was freed from it…"

"Were you?" Ivy's voice now was low, heavy with meaning he did not quite understand.  "_Were you?  Your… connection… was severed completely?"_

"Yes," Siegfried replied automatically and then paused, raising his head. "No… no, not completely... I could still feel it, but it was distant, as though… I don't know exactly.  As though it were a waking dream…"

"It wasn't a dream, Herr Schtauffen.  Your bond was weakened, not destroyed.  You knew when Inferno was defeated, did you not?"

Siegfried shrugged, "When I awakened I was told that-"

"No, no, no," Ivy interrupted him impatiently, the superior languor of her manner suddenly replaced by barely restrained manic energy, "I don't mean you _learned_ of it, you _knew it.  You _felt_ it.  No?"_

He stared at her for a long moment. "…yes.  But… he was gone from the earth…"

Her expression became at once triumphant and predatory, her lips forming a savage smile which Schtauffen had to work not to flinch from.  "_Now do you understand?" she laughed, "__Now do you see?"_

"See _what_?" Siegfried asked angrily, shaking his head, "None of this explains where _that," he let his glance flicker to the box, "came from."_

"Herr Schtauffen," Ivy chuckled, her face alive with dangerous good humour, "you are _entirely mistaken.  Your tale explains it completely, if you know what to look for."_

Siegfried frowned, irritated, "Assume that I _don't know what to look for."_

"Certainly.  You bore the Soul Edge for over two years.  Inferno's essence dwelt within you and your blade for that time, easily long enough to… make its mark upon you."  She stood, pacing as she continued didactically, "Such a mark is indelible, you understand?  Once so branded, you will bear it until you die."

Siegfried nodded grimly, guarding his horror from her eyes.  In contrast, Ivy seemed to be warming to her subject.

"You were quite correct when you said Inferno was 'gone from the earth'.  Chai Xianghua –who defeated it – did so in its native plane, the Void.  A place of utter desolation, though that is not material to the point.  She was able to destroy his form with the Soul Calibur, a spirit weapon which is essentially the Soul Edge's antithesis.  She left that weapon in the Void when she returned, hoping – I assume – that it would prevent Inferno from ever recovering its strength.  As you have seen, she was not successful – because she was unaware of the true extent and nature of Inferno's malignant influence."

She paused, turning to look at him almost expectantly.  He frowned, running over her words in his mind.  Much of what she said was beyond him, but he understood the essence of what she was telling him.  So, by _Inferno's malignant influence_ he took her to mean… "Its… bond to me?"

Ivy smiled coldly, her eyes narrowing, "Exactly.  Inferno's taint has marked your blood, your very soul with a bond which cannot be broken.  This means essentially two things:  While you live, Inferno cannot be utterly destroyed; and, also while you live, you serve as an anchor for Inferno upon the earth.  Inevitably, it _will be drawn here._

"And so, you are the answer to your own question.  How is it that the Soul Edge was not destroyed and has returned – however fragmented – to plague the earth?" Her eyes burned into his face, "Because it lives on, in its wielders.  In _you."_

Schtauffen rose to his feet, his face darkened with the anger and confusion roiling within him. "You're lying," he snarled, "That _can't_ be true!"

"Am I?  You know better than I do that it's true.  You've _always known.  You simply didn't understand what it was that you felt."_

"_LIAR_!"  he screamed.  His mind focused all of his fury, all of his bottomless despair upon the woman in front of him.  "You're lying! I remember you now," he snarled, "You were its _ally_! You're trying… you're trying to use me again!"

Ivy absorbed the accusation silently, dropping her gaze from his visage.  He stood awaiting some response, his body taut with rage and his mind awhirl with confusion, desperately seeking an escape from the truth's deadly snare.  It took her a long time to respond.

"Yes," she said quietly, "You remember correctly.  I served it too - and my guilt is greater even than your own, for _I _did it by choice.  I was deceived, and manipulated – but still, I made the choice."  She laughed then, the sound hollow and bitter.  "I was a _fool_.  I had studied the Soul Edge for _years, I thought I __knew how it played its devious games, and yet I did not recognize what was before my very eyes.  I was ensnared by the very thing I sought to destroy.  Like you, I only saw the truth after its defeat.  In this you are quite correct._

"But I promise you this," she continued, her low voice charged with deadly intent as she turned back to him, stepping close and locking her gaze with his, "I have now, as I did then, but a sole purpose: to seek out this accursed thing and bring it to ruin so utter that it shall never again darken the earth with its shadow.  I shall destroy it completely; eradicate it as vengeance for those it has consumed and to protect those yet to come from its evil.  I swear this on my _life."_

Staring into those cold blue pools he could not doubt that she spoke the truth, even as he heard a familiar edge to her voice that he could not quite identify.  Simple guilt, perhaps, or something deeper… he wondered at it momentarily, before the clear implications of her revelation drove the thought from his mind.

"You've come to kill me, then."

He was not sure how he expected her to reply, but her laughter was about the last response he had expected.  In light of the import of his question he found her mirth rather insulting.  "What the hell's so funny?"

Ivy mastered herself, eyeing him with scornful amusement.  "Had I come to kill you you'd be dead on the floor of your hovel, Schtauffen.  Do you think I would drag you out here and explain the facts of your life to you for my own amusement?"

"I certainly wouldn't put it past you," Siegfried grunted, irritated by the logic of her answer as much as by her tone.  Ivy shrugged.

"Perhaps I would, at that.  In any case, Schtauffen, I'm not here to kill you.  I am here to ask for your help."

This time it was Siegfried's turn to laugh.  "You're asking for my help?  You broke my door in, you threw me in the mud, you've abused me at every opportunity.  Why in God's name would I help you?"

"Because this is important beyond your offended sensibilities." Ivy hissed. "Because you've been used.  Because it turned you into the monster you feared you could be.  Because you want it destroyed as much as I do."

He fumbled for a retort, but realized she was right.  Again.  

He sat down heavily.  "Why me, then?  There are other warriors out there as strong, or stronger.  Good men and women, too… untainted…"

"If I wanted a _good_ man I would clearly be wasting my time here," Ivy retorted sarcastically, "though I'd certainly be on the right track if I were looking for a self-pitying whiner.  How low you have fallen.  What does it _matter why?  How can you hesitate?  You know what is at stake here."  Her voice lowered, dripping with contempt.  "Perhaps you are simply hesitant to leave the _life_," she spat the word out, "you have made here."  _

She shook her head in disgust, glaring down at him.  After a long silence she turned to leave, but had barely taken two steps when he called out to her.

"You didn't answer the question.  Why did you come for me?"

She did not reply immediately.  When she did the venom had left her voice, replaced by a kind of flat despair.  "I sought you out hoping to find an ally who understood, as I do, the measure and depth of the Soul Edge's evil – a man who would realize that there is _no sacrifice too great in the pursuit of its destruction.  Who else understands this but we two?  Who will do what must be done, if _we_ do not?  There __is nobody else.  Twice now Inferno has escaped complete destruction because those who had the chance to finish it stayed their hands, out of ignorance or out of compassion.  Twice it has returned to visit ruin and slaughter upon the world.  It is a cunning and malevolent entity, Herr Schtauffen – it learns, and thinks, and plots.  How many more chances will we have?_

"I have learned that all of my studies do not guarantee that I can best the beast – or even recognize it.  You perhaps remember that my own weapon gained its power from that demon; I trust my own creation, but even I cannot say for certain whether I can rely upon it in battle against Inferno.  I need your _help_, Herr Schtauffen.  It is not in my nature to ask. I do not do it lightly.  But the stakes are too high.  We – the world – cannot risk another failure.  

"We are both tainted by our… our past deeds, it is true.  But that taint, that experience, can give us the resolve - the _will_ - to do what purer souls cannot."

She took a deep breath, her voice once again glacial as she concluded.

"I cannot force you to aid me, Herr Schtauffen.  What I need from you, you must give willingly.  I will waste no more words trying to persuade you.  Come; don't come; the choice is your own, for once.  I will not wait long for your decision." With that she was gone, her footfalls fading as she ascended the slope, leaving Siegfried to his thoughts.

He sat in silence for perhaps a minute before climbing heavily to his feet and ascending in her wake.  In the end, he realized, there _was_ no choice.  The irony almost made him laugh.

****

It was Mackay who spotted him emerging from the woods.  He bent towards Lady Isabella, whose back was to the man. "My lady…" He gestured at the German, noticing with faint alarm that the man's demeanour had changed from its earlier listlessness; there was grim purpose to his stride and a harsh set to his features.  The young Scot unconsciously rested one hand on his pistol-butt as he approached.

Lady Isabella half-turned as Schtauffen neared, watching him sidewise as he climbed up on to the cart before she swung up into her saddle.  As she guided her mount past the cart Schtauffen leaned towards her.

"You said your intent was to destroy it utterly."  He said, his voice level, "I assume, then, that you mean to destroy it," his eyes flickered to Mackay and he hesitated before continuing, "anchors and all."

"When all else is done," the Lady answered quietly, "Yes.  There is no other way."

Schtauffen nodded slowly, his mouth quirking into a grim smile.  "So, you would have returned for me eventually."

"No," she replied smoothly, matching his expression, "not _eventually.  I would have come back down after you in five minutes."_

With that she spurred her steed down the path, leaving the young mercenary gaping after her.

****************

Author's Notes: Oh yes, the romance is a _long way off…_

A thousand thanks to all my reviewers (that's eight thousand thanks!), who really make it all worthwhile.  You _rock_.

'Herr' by the by, is the German equivalent of 'Mister'.  My apologies for any confusion, but I wanted to get some use out of my old high school German…

Again, I hope you enjoyed.  Keep safe and be happy!


	3. Ambuscades

**_SINS OF THE DAUGHTER, SINS OF THE SON_**

Chapter 3:  _Ambuscades_

By Kurt1K

_Have I gone mad_?

The question hung in the forefront of Siegfried Schtauffen's mind as the cart descended the narrow, rocky path towards Bastia.  It was a question he had asked himself before, but in the abstract; now, it seemed much more relevant.

And yet, strangely, he did not feel it to be the case.  As the trio continued towards the distantly visible sea, there was a strange certainty in his mind that he was doing what he needed to – not only for himself, but in a larger sense.  Now that the decision he had avoided so long and so desperately was made, he felt an oppressive weight lifted from his spirit.  Closing his eyes he took a deep breath, tasting the rain-freshened air and the mingled scents of the Corsican countryside in a way he had not in the ten months he had lived there. 

_Perhaps I've gone **sane…**_

He smiled to himself at the thought.  _You're following a woman who has promised to kill you on a quest to destroy a demon that has outwitted or bested you both in the past, Schtauffen.  Where's the sanity in that?_

Lost in his musings it took him several minutes to realize that he was being watched.

****

Mackay watched the German out of the corner of his eye.  The man seemed lost in thought – _not a good sign, the young Scot thought.  Who knew what nefarious plots he might be hatching?  He resolved again to keep a close eye on this newcomer; his Lady did not seem concerned, but for once perhaps she was too trusting.  He was starting to formulate a plan to move both of his pistols out of reach of the man without looking suspicious – no simple task at such close quarters, but he thought he had a way – when Schtauffen suddenly turned to look at him and their eyes locked._

"I don't like being watched." The German's voice was cold.  Mackay felt his hackles rise.

"I'll bear that in mind," he retorted defiantly, but did not avert his gaze.  Schtauffen's grey eyes narrowed slightly.

The two men stared at each other in silence, locked in a silent battle of wills.  They remained that way until the horse, its course now unattended, wandered off the narrow path and the cart canted steeply to one side.  Mackay made a wild grab for the edge of the bench as he toppled sideways off the cart to land heavily on the grassy earth with a grunt of pain.

"Damn it…" he groaned, rolling to a sitting position and rubbing at his bruised hip.  The horse had stopped a few feet farther on to graze, the cart still tilted sharply.  Schtauffen, who had been on the upper end of the bench and had evidently managed to keep his seat, dismounted a little clumsily and turned to look down at him.

"You all right?"  There was an undercurrent to his tone which sounded suspiciously like amusement.  Mackay glanced up sharply.  The German's expression was somber – barely.  A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he waited for the Scotsman's response.

Mackay scowled, "Aye, just wonderful."  He started to rise, waving off the German's proffered hand, and his feet shot out from under him on the rain-slick grass to deposit him on his backside again.  "_Shit!"_

This time Schtauffen _did_ laugh.  Mackay tried to glare at him threateningly, but to his immense frustration found himself starting to chuckle as well.  He shook his head ruefully. "Well, give me a hand up then, ye hairy oaf."

Schtauffen's grin was startlingly white in his unkempt visage as he grasped Mackay's outstretched hand and pulled him upright.  His hand still clasping the Scot's he looked him in the eye.

"Siegfried Schtauffen."

"I know who you are, Mister Schtauffen," the younger man replied, "I'm Alastair Mackay."

"_Siegfried_ is fine, Mr. Mackay."

"Aye, well, Lady Isabella's the only one who ever calls me Mr. Mackay, so it's Alastair, or 'Hey You!' or whatever." Mackay responded.  At the mention of the Lady's name Schtauffen's smile took on a forced quality that the Scot, focused on wiping his breeches clean of grass, did not observe.

The whicker of a horse drew their attention to the path.  Mackay winced as his eyes settled upon Lady Isabella glaring down at them, every line of her cloaked figure radiating irritation.

"What are you two _doing_?" she snapped, wheeling her steed back towards Bastia.  Mackay snatched his hat from his head, clasping it before him as his mind raced for an explanation.

"My fault," Schtauffen offered suddenly, to Mackay's immense relief, "I was feeling unwell, and-"

_BANG!_

The gunshot was impossibly loud in the tranquil woodlands.  Mackay instinctively ducked at the sound, spinning around as he searched desperately for its source.  Schtauffen was doing the same as Lady Isabella's mount reared, screaming.  Another shot struck splinters from a tree by the German's side, the sharp _crack_ of the wood almost as loud as the gun.  A third sounded a moment later.

He saw them then, a loose group of perhaps half a dozen men breaking cover from the trees ahead and advancing as a group at a steady trot.  Pulling behind a tree he glanced at Schtauffen, who had seen them as well and was casting about for a weapon.  Turning he looked up at the road, but he could not see the Lady; her horse was galloping back along the path, its saddle empty.

Adrenalin mixed with fear and anger flooded through him as he yanked his pistols from his belt.  He took a deep breath, and risked another look.

_Ten_ now, three of them slinging muskets as they brought up the rear and the nearest less than fifty yards away.  As he watched one of the men barked a command and the group separated, four continuing their approach as the others diverged towards the far side of the path.  He felt a wash of relief; Lady Isabella must still be alive.  Now all he had to worry about was himself.

He glanced in the other direction, but Schtauffen was nowhere to be seen.  Mackay swore vehemently, thinking fast.  If he could take two with his pistols the other two would probably run – he didn't bother counting the ones who were after the Lady; they were already dead, whether they knew it or not.  If they didn't run – _Well, __I can take **two** he thought, rather more heartily than he felt._

One more deep breath and he swung around the tree, one pistol lowering to level at the nearest attacker.  His neighbor spotted the movement and ducked for cover with a shout, but the man took a moment too long to react and Mackay smiled wolfishly behind his weapon as he pulled the trigger.

The ball took the man just above the waist, folding him over with a surprised grunt that would probably be the last noise he ever made.  The others barely hesitated before charging, taking Mackay by surprise.  Soldiers would probably know that a discharged pistol should be engaged before it could be reloaded, but brigands would seldom think it through that way.

It took him a moment to shake off his surprise, juggling his pistols quickly and leveling the second.  His target immediately lurched sideways, but Mackay tracked the move and fired at barely ten yards distance.

He had no time to watch the results of his shot; they were upon him.  As the first man rounded the tree Mackay dropped his pistols and drew his falchion – a short, heavy sword with a single curved edge.  He carried it for show more than anything, but under the circumstances it was better than nothing.

The man was short and broad, with a heavy buff coat under his travel-worn cloak and a short sword bright in his hand.  He scowled at Mackay, circling wide as the Scot awaited his attack with his falchion gripped in both hands.  The man made a quick lunge which Mackay flinched away from, but didn't press the attack.  It took Mackay a moment to realize what was happening – he was waiting for the others.

Barely had he realized this when he caught a flicker of movement to his right and sprang backwards as the second man lunged at him, leading with his short spear.  The foot-long spearhead tugged at his sleeve as it slid past harmlessly, but in his desperate leap Mackay lost his footing once more and he fell heavily, the falchion jarred from his fingers.

As he fumbled desperately for his weapon his opponents closed swiftly for the kill.

****

**_BLOOD…_**

He screamed soundlessly as _again its voice howled in his mind, its consciousness a hellish serpent rearing from the darkest recesses of his soul to coil about his spirit.  Once again he beheld the land through another's eyes, gorging on the slaughter as the world burned.  It was not just a memory, he knew now.  This time he knew it for what it was, knew its name, its purpose.  _

_Inferno_.

**_DARKNESS…_**

Clutching at his head he fell to his knees, clawing at the ground as though he could bury himself to hide from the blazing visage staring at his mind's eye.  But there was no hiding from this foe; this foe lay _within._

**_COME UNTO ME!_**

It bellowed, calling to him, fiery talons clutching at his soul where once they had found such ready purchase.  He felt himself being dragged down into an endless sea of fire, his body consumed and yet not consumed, the agony unending.  With wild energy he fought the beast, focusing all of his tainted spirit into a desperate struggle for freedom.

_No!_

His own voice sounded so terribly _faint before Inferno's roar, but it sounded nevertheless.  With strength fired by hatred and sheer determination he fought the demon's black will, battering at its hold, driving it back until his senses were once again his own._

As the scorched landscape receded from his present he saw once again the woodlands of Corsica.  He was faintly aware of sounds – the ring of steel, the strangely muffled bark of voices – but it was his own name that brought him back to himself.

"_Schtauffen, god damn it!  Where the hell are ye?_"

Siegfried's head rose at the sound.  Through the trees he could see Mackay scrambling backwards as his two assailants closed on him.  Schtauffen rose from his hands and knees, forcing his pain-wracked body to obey his will.  He could still taste blood fresh on his lips, but he shook off the thought as he stooped to take up a heavy branch and staggered towards the battle.

The spearman noticed his approach and signaled his companion, who wheeled to face the new threat.  The swordsman assessed the newcomer and – evidently unimpressed – advanced to meet him, his small buckler raised in defense and his sword low and at the ready.

**_BLOOD_**_…  **DARKNESS**…_

Inferno's voice rang in his head, his senses blurring as new pain lanced through his skull.  He stumbled, almost falling as tears of pain welled in his eyes.

His opponent hesitated barely a moment before seizing the opportunity before him, lunging to attack.  Sunlight glinted from his short sword as it speared towards Siegfried's midsection, the flash of light snapping the young German back to his senses.  He reacted on pure instinct, swiping upwards with his makeshift weapon to bat the sword aside.  Surprised by the speed of his reaction, the brigand was overextended and off balance as the club whirled over Schtauffen's head and crashed down on the man's shoulder.  The impact drove the man to his knees as the club bounced back, Schtauffen turning its momentum into a double-handed horizontal swing that smashed in the side of the brigand's skull.

The kill seemed to strengthen Inferno's voice, but Schtauffen determinedly ignored its furious clamor now and turned towards the others.  Mackay was dodging the spearman around a tree, the brigand's attention so focused on him that he did not notice the German's approach until an iron arm clamped about his throat and his comrade's sword slid between his ribs.

**_COME UNTO ME!_**

As the man fell the screams erupted once more into full voice, pummeling at the walls of his skull.  The sword fell from nerveless fingers as his legs faltered and he slumped against a tree in a desperate effort to keep his feet.  He was vaguely aware of Mackay's voice, but could not make the words out over the roaring in his head.  _Why is this happening?_ A tiny part of his consciousness cried, lost and confused.  He felt the presence in his soul somehow gathering strength from the deaths, swelling until he felt his skull would burst.

And then – abruptly – it was gone, its vast presence a mere shadow fading into memory as he collapsed to the ground, coughing and retching.  Utterly spent, he surrendered to the peace of unconsciousness moments later.

****

Mackay watched the German fall, paralyzed with indecision.  A part of him wanted to help the man who had just saved his life but Schtauffen's convulsions and incoherent screams had terrified him, bringing to mind the tales he had heard of the man's unstable, murderous nature - and other, darker tales of his deeds.  

After a long silence he plucked up the courage to edge forward, sheathing his falchion – _bloody_ _useless thing_.  Nervously he reached out and picked up the shortsword from where it lay next to Schtauffen, tossing it out of reach before venturing to prod the supine figure.

"Hey," his voice quavered and he took a moment to compose himself before speaking again, "Hey, Schtauffen.  Siegfried, mate, you all right?"

The faint rustle of leaves behind him had him whirling, fumbling to draw his pistols even as he realized he hadn't picked them back up.  Cursing, he grabbed at the hilt of his falchion and whipped it out, snarling defiantly.

"Are you _quite_ done?"  Lady Isabella's voice was frosty even for _her_.  She stood a little farther upslope, her cloak draped over one arm and her sword sheathed on her back.  Gore and mud were spattered on her white boots and her dark red clothes were spotted with blood, but she was as poised as ever.  Her eyes drifted to Schtauffen's prone form.  "Is he dead?"

Mackay shook his head, "No, he-"

"Get the cart back on the road," she said curtly, tossing him her cloak as she stepped down to the German's side, "and find my horse."  Kneeling by the man's side she lifted and slung him over her shoulders.  Mackay stuttered an offer of help, receiving only a peremptory glare which sent him hastening to obey her instructions.

****

Siegfried awakened slowly to light, comfort and warmth.  Shifting languorously he smiled, enjoying the sensations until his memory caught up with him and his eyes snapped wide open.

The chamber was low-roofed but spacious, sunlight streaming through large curved windows at one end.  The bed he was stretched out on was set into a niche on one side, shielded by a half-drawn curtain.  A large map table dominated the room while side tables and shelves bore an array of devices he did not recognize, intricate instruments of brass and wood gleaming in the sunlight.  

At the table, Isabella Valentine bent low over an elaborate framework of copper and glass, liquids bubbling in glass bottles and trickling through delicate piping.  Her eyes narrowed in concentration as she tweaked a series of screws flanking a collection of copper flasks, the purpose of which Siegfried could not even guess at.  Something about her manner suggested that distracting her from her work would be unwise, and he held his tongue until she straightened from her task with a satisfied expression.

"I never thought of you as the cooking type," he said finally.  She glanced at him briefly before returning her gaze to her work, picking up a small book from the table and taking out the quill folded among its pages.

"You could fill a _library_ with the things that you do not know about me." She replied coolly, inking the quill and starting to write as she paced around the table with her eyes on her instruments.  When it became apparent she had no intention of saying anything more helpful Schtauffen tried to rise, but found the action much harder than he had expected; his muscles burned with the effort, and after a moment he stopped trying, grimacing.

"You may experience some difficulty in moving," Ivy said absently.  Schtauffen glared at her; she had to have seen him struggling.  "You've been unconscious now for almost two days and your body was hardly in the best of shape even before that."

Siegfried closed his eyes at that.  Two days… he breathed deeply, remembering the events on the trail.  The attack… the battle… _the_ _voice.  _

"I heard Inferno." He spoke quietly, but at his words Ivy stopped writing.  "Up on the path, when the brigands attacked us, I heard its voice.

"I've fought brigands since coming to Corsica, and I never heard it, not like that.  Do… do you know why it happened?"  He hated to ask it of her, to depend on her, but he had to know.

"Yes." For the first time he found her assurance comforting.  The sensation lasted almost an entire second.  "It was because of me."

"_What_?" Siegfried was incredulous.  "What do you mean, because of you?"  His anger leant strength to his limbs and he rose to a sitting position, ignoring the groans of his weary muscles.  The woman looked at him contemptuously.

"Is it possible that you _still_ do not understand?"  As she spoke Ivy reached down beside the table and picked up the sheathed sword that leant there.  Siegfried tensed instinctually, though she made no move towards him; he knew perfectly well that she didn't need to come any closer to strike him.  A moment later realization struck, but she had already drawn the blade forth-

- and Inferno **_SCREAMED_ in his head, clawing at his soul – **

And fell silent as Ivy's sword whispered back into its sheath.

Siegfried stared at her, trembling with shock and fury.  "You _bitch,_" he finally managed, his voice soft and deadly.  "You could have _told_ me."

"I _did_ tell you." Ivy snapped angrily. "I told you back at your shanty that the Ivy Blade gained its power from Nightmare.  From _you!  Even if you do not remember the act-"_

"I meant just _now_!" Siegfried cut her off angrily, surging to his feet, "You could have just _told me why it happened, you didn't have to pull the damn sword on me! __God!" He leaned heavily against the wall, suddenly drained, "You know all about _why_ it does what it does to me, and _how_," he continued wearily, "but you don't understand how it _feels_, what it's _like_ when he… it… wakens inside you.  When he tries to take you and…" He sat down heavily.  "You __can't understand, Ivy.  It's… a violation."_

He could feel her eyes on him, but she did not speak for a long moment.  When she did her voice was soft and almost hesitant.  He hardly recognized it.

"You…" she sighed softly, "you're right.  I… apologize, Herr Schtauffen.  I should have considered… I should have known better."

He nodded soundlessly at her words, barely aware of her laying the sword down and moving away to sit silently at the table.

It was some minutes before he spoke again.

"I understand your goal," he said quietly, "and I agree with it.  What I don't understand is your intentions for me, Ivy.  From what you've told me I understand that the Soul Edge has returned to the world, but… in fragments?"  At her nod he continued, "So… I assume that you mean to find and somehow destroy the fragments, and then… kill the wielders.  The anchors.

"All that I understand – well," he smiled bitterly, "more or less.  But… you asked for my help.  How can I help you?  I can't even come close to one of the fragments without Inferno, or whatever it left inside of me, awakening.  I barely controlled it _this time and you were what, a hundred yards away?  Next time I could well be overcome.  How would _that_ help you or your quest?"_

Ivy regarded him thoughtfully before replying.

"Your guesses are reasonable, in the main.  My studies have led me to believe that to assure the blade's final destruction, it is necessary to forge it entire – I am _not_ jesting," she overrode his astonished objection, "and yes, I understand the extraordinary dangers involved – even better than you do, in this case.  There are precautions that can be taken, however, to minimize the sword's power while this is done.  The risk cannot be entirely eliminated, but there is simply no alternative.  To be completely destroyed, it must first be made complete.  It is that simple.

"The rituals – both of forging and of destruction - are long, and they are difficult, but they are not beyond my abilities.  However," she paused, meeting his eyes directly, "in order to succeed, the blade's connection to our world must be severed at the ritual's climax, as the blade is destroyed."

_Me, in other words_, Schtauffen thought darkly.  _My life for the sword's destruction_.  He had known it already, but to hear it was still jarring.

He sighed, attempting a smile.  "Yes.  That sounds right somehow.  But… what of Cervantes de Leon?  You surely can't be expecting _him to co-operate?"_

"He does not _need_ to co-operate." Ivy said icily.  "He dies _before_ the forging.  Only one host is required for the ritual to succeed.  De Leon does complicate things, but only a little.  I believe that is why you resurrected him when you were under the sword's influence; it gave Inferno a second connection to the world."

"Sounds a little like cheating," Siegfried observed wryly.  Ivy nodded, pensively.

"Inferno is concerned with its own survival, as… most of us are," she said quietly.  After a moment she continued, more forcefully, "It will fight us by every means at its disposal.  Even fragmented, it is dangerous – able to twist the desires of those about it to its own ends.  How many have sought the blade as a means of salvation, or a tool of power?  It is neither; the power it grants is ephemeral, ultimately serving only itself, yet _still it is sought.  It will set its cunning and its strength against us; it has already begun to do so."_

At that assertion Schtauffen raised his eyes to hers questioningly.  "Those were no brigands that attacked us, Herr Schtauffen.  They were mercenaries, looking for me, and perhaps for you."

"They told you?"

"No," Ivy replied, "but they were not surprised by my blade's abilities.  Someone had warned them."  Her smile was grim. "Not that it was enough."

That they were having the conversation at all was proof enough of _that_, Siegfried supposed.  "You have no idea who sent them?"

Ivy shrugged.  "Fygul Cestemus perhaps, though it is not really their style to send mercenaries when fanatics or monsters will serve."  She paused, her fingers drumming on the arm of her chair.  "Certainly our path and theirs will eventually cross; the cult is no doubt seeking the shards for its own purposes.  Their resources are greater than ours, so it will most likely prove efficient to allow them to gather those they can and then take them away.  In the meantime…"

She paused again, lost in thought.  After a few moments Siegfried spoke again:  "How do you intend _we find the fragments, then?"_

"Hm?"  Ivy seemed taken aback by his question, but after a moment she smiled smugly. "I have several leads, but as to pursuing them effectively – that is where you come in."

At his blank look her smile widened.  "Simply put, your sensitivity to the shards will simplify the search."

Siegfried bolted upright, ignoring the strain in his legs. "_WHAT?!" he shouted, "Are you __completely insane?  Were you listening to what I said at __all?"_

Ivy sat out his tirade, her smile unwavering.  "Please sit down Herr Schtauffen, I have not yet fully explained myself to you."

"_Really_?" Siegfried retorted sardonically, "And you are _usually such a model of veracity."_

"It is said that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Herr Schtauffen." Ivy said calmly.

"_You_ haven't exactly been reluctant to employ it," he bit back.

She shrugged, "I felt anything higher would go over your head – now just _listen_.  As you are already aware – though its importance has clearly failed to register – my blade only affects you when it is unsheathed."

Siegfried blinked at her.  He _had_ overlooked that.  

"The same is true of this fragment." she continued, tapping the pouch on her belt.  "A simple – well, relatively simple – combination of alchemy and sorcery serves to mask it; Ivy Blade's sheath fulfils the same purpose.  The process prevents the fragment from resonating with other shards while within the box, or with those attuned to the blade – hence, your… Inferno remains dormant even in its presence.

"After _considerable_ effort, I have altered this ritual to suit a new purpose – that is, to protect you from the worst of the effects.  _You will still be aware of the presence of shards," her voice softened slightly, "but Inferno – __your Inferno, your parasite – will _not_."  Standing, she gestured to the intricate apparatus on the chart table.  "This is the final stage.  At midnight, the ritual will be complete."_

Siegfried glared at her, still furious but interested in spite of himself.  "And how..? You don't expect _me_ to get into a box, I hope."

"The thought did occur to me while working on the process," Ivy muttered, "_Several_ times, in fact.  No, there is no box.  You need only keep the ritual item on your person, and it will function."

"You couldn't have given it to me before now?"

"No," Ivy said shortly, "Certain essential components could only be obtained from you personally."

He didn't like the sound of that.  "Such as?"

"The item itself; the ritual requires a focus with a strong connection to you.  Mr. Mackay obtained one in Bastia." She replied, leaning over the apparatus and tapping on one of the pipes.  After a moment she added almost as an afterthought, "And blood."

"Blood." He repeated slowly.  _Not too much of a price considering what she's offering_.  "Fine.  Take what you need."

"I did," she replied offhandedly, "while you were unconscious."  She gestured at his right arm, drawing his attention to the bandages bound over the forearm.

Schtauffen stared at the binding, then back at Ivy.  He shook his head, laughing weakly.  The woman was _unbelievable.  _

"Have I amused you?" she asked dryly.  Siegfried's laughter faded.

"So _this_ is why you sought me out?  To… sniff out the shards?"

"Partly."

"And all that about needing an ally who understood what you do, all that was just – what, just a line?"

Ivy sighed, straightening from her work.  After a moment she turned to face him.  "Everything I said to you before was true, Herr Schtauffen."

He held her gaze for a long moment before nodding assent.

"All right," he said quietly, "So where do we start?"

Ivy smiled thinly.

"The Money Pit."

*********************

Author's Notes:  Ah, exposition - a _very_ tricky thing, a balancing act of information vs interest.  Let me know how I did.

Thanks once more to my kind reviewers, who have given me such encouragement.  May the fleas of a thousand camels… no, that's not right… anyway - many, many thanks.

A special note of thanks to e-man182, who not only correctly identified my inspiration but found a link to the picture online.  I have searched and searched… thanks again! 

I noticed I forgot to put disclaimers on my previous chapters – but seriously, does anybody think I own Soul Calibur?  Thought not.

Soul Calibur 2 _finally reaches Australia this week (supposedly)… I feel like a kid on the night before Christmas._


	4. The Shores of the Styx

**_SINS OF THE DAUGHTER, SINS OF THE SON_**

Chapter 4: _The Shores of the __Styx_

By Kurt1K

"_That's the Money Pit?"_

Batistelli glanced around as Marc Rousseau joined him at the rail, eyes narrowed as he took in the low, rocky shape on the horizon.

"According to Signora Valentine."

The Frenchman frowned.  "Doesn't _look like much," he murmured, sounding rather disappointed.  Batistelli smiled._

"If it did I suppose that it would not have remained secret for so long," he replied.  Rousseau shrugged, wincing as he did so.

It was Batistelli's turn to frown.  "Your shoulder?"

Rousseau grimaced, rolling the arm experimentally, "Mm.  Still a little tender, that's all."

"I should not have agreed to this," the captain muttered, turning his attention to the center of the deck where a half-dozen of his crew were clustered, armed with a variety of clubs and staves.  Rousseau followed his gaze, and grinned.

"Don't worry about it, Gianni, it's actually pretty good entertainment – an interesting diversion, anyway.  What's a few bruises?"

At the center of the group stood the young German.  Batistelli had to admit the youth looked much better than when he had been brought aboard, filthy and unconscious, five days earlier.  Now washed and clean-shaven, he was clad in a knee-length mail hauberk and held a five-foot wooden staff with both hands like a sword.  As the two men watched one of the sailors lunged at him with a heavy club, only to be sidestepped and knocked to the deck with a quick tap across the shoulders.

Barely was he down when the rest sprang to the attack.  Schtauffen took a huge swing with his staff which broke their assault as the sailors hastily ducked back out of range.  He followed up on the biggest, Mancuso, with a quick step and a punch with the base of his staff which sent the big man tumbling, and wheeled on Gaiardi.   With his staff hanging behind his back in one hand, he beckoned the man with the other.  The skinny deckhand backed away hurriedly, piling into Ottaviano in his haste; the two went down in a tangle of limbs.  Swinging his staff back into a forward grip the German looked over at the remaining man, Cagni, and raised a questioning eyebrow.  The sailor grinned back and dropped his club, raising his hands in surrender.

Batistelli winced as the battered men got to their feet, Schtauffen helping a groaning Mancuso rise.  "Not even close this time," he observed, "If I did not know better I would say he is getting stronger every time."

"You would be right," Rousseau said, "He is much better now than he was even this morning.  Perhaps he was out of practice, but he is remembering fast."

"Mm."  Batistelli nodded, drumming his fingers on the quarterdeck railing.  After a moment he looked at the Frenchman.  "What do you make of him?"

"Schtauffen?"  Rousseau paused thoughtfully.  "Seems a decent fellow.  Not afraid to work, pulls his weight, gets on all right with the crew…"

"And yet?"  Batistelli knew his first mate well enough to know the question was warranted.  Rousseau frowned.

"And _yet… I do not know, exactly.  One has the feeling when speaking with him that his thoughts are far away.  It is difficult to describe…"_

"You need not describe it," the captain muttered, "I have felt it too, and you are right.  There is a shadow on him."

Rousseau wouldn't have phrased it quite that dramatically but he nodded, his eyes on the little group below them.  The Scotsman, Mackay, had joined them now, cheerily collecting his winnings.  He had taken some losses the day before and even this morning by betting on the German, but he was making good now.  After this latest victory, though, Rousseau imagined Mackay would probably have a hard time finding ready takers for his wagers.

"On the other hand," the Frenchman offered, indicating Mackay with a tilt of the head, "_he_ is very easy to read."  Batistelli nodded, smiling. 

"Yes, young Mackay is not such a puzzle, is he?  A strange traveling companion for the other two."

"They are strange travel companions for each _other_," Rousseau commented, "They could not be more unalike."

Batistelli smiled to himself.

"You think so?"

Rousseau gave his captain a surprised look, but Batistelli did not elaborate.  His attention now was on Schtauffen, his expression contemplative.

*****

Siegfried rolled his shoulders, closing his eyes and drinking in the sea air.  His entire body ached from the day's exertions and he could feel a few choice bruises in spite of the heavy mail, but it had been a long time since he had felt quite so alive.

His skills were coming back more easily than he had expected; though his arms felt as though they had lead weights bound to them, they remembered the hard lessons he had learned in the fighting school in Magdeburg and on a score of battlefields.  It was going to take a while to get used to the weight of armour again, though, and the long mail coat was very different from the Maximilian-style plate he was used to; his shoulders had to carry most of its weight, and they were feeling the strain.  Still, he reflected, better a burden on his shoulders than on his soul.

A hand clapped him on the back and he turned to see Mackay grinning at him.  The younger man held up his purse, which bulged full.

"Another triumph!  I tell ye, Siegfried, it's too bad we din' have time to hang round in Bastia.  There's a fighting pit under the Albatross, ye could have made champion no problem-"

Siegfried had to smile at Mackay's enthusiasm.  "Didn't you tell me just yesterday that you'd never set foot in that – what was it – '_stinking rat's nest_' ever again?"

"Sounds like me," Mackay admitted, and then shrugged, "but that was then.  When money calls, things change."

"Obviously."  Schtauffen responded dryly, smiling as he said it.  "I assume you've come out ahead."

"_Ahead doesn't do it justice," Mackay smirked, "I'm up almost a florin, thanks to you.  Really is too bad we had to leave so quick, we could have made a _killing_…"_

"So you have already said."  Siegfried noted.  He started to unfasten the ties on his hauberk as Mackay sat on one of the fresh water barrels nearby.

"It's worth saying twice.  When this is over ye might want to consider the fighting pits – ye could do well."

"And you would be there to reap the profits of my efforts, I suppose." Schtauffen's voice was grim now in spite of his efforts to lighten it; Mackay's words had reminded him of something he had forgotten, if only briefly.  _When this is over_…

The young Scot picked up on his tone and immediately backpedaled, "Well - I'm just saying that-"

Siegfried raised a hand, cutting him off.  "I know."  He sighed, meeting the Scot's wary gaze, "Let us just concentrate on the present, Alastair."

"Aye.  Sure.  No problem."  Mackay agreed hastily.  After a moment's silence he smiled suddenly, "Actually that reminds me, I've something for ye."

Schtauffen looked at him enquiringly, but the Scot just grinned.  "I'll be right back."

As he moved off Siegfried shrugged the mail coat off and plucked at the heavy, damp quilted undershirt beneath, shaking his head.  At his best he could have traveled and fought in heavy plate armour all day and not worked up such a sweat as he had in the past few hours.  _You still have a long way to go, Schtauffen._

His hand brushed over the cloak-pin now secured by a thin chain about his neck and he plucked it from where it rested on his chest.  The Schtauffen heraldry shone in the early afternoon sun, brighter by far than the memories it brought; the pin was the last thing of his family's that he had still owned.  Ivy had returned it to him the morning after their rather tense exchange in her cabin, and then had actually warned him before opening the box containing the fragment to test her work – a marvel of tactfulness, at least by her standards.  He had been so surprised that he had barely registered the fact that her sorcery had worked; he had felt the blade's presence - a strange sort of singing in his mind – but the beast slumbering in his soul had not awakened.

She had been unable to resist an acid comment on the depth to which he must have sunk to sell family heirlooms for drinking money before departing back to her cabin, but she had not been nearly as harsh on the subject as he had in his own mind.  To him it was the mark of the final, crowning failure in a life filled with them; one last, petty betrayal of the father he had loved.  

The father he had murdered.

With an effort he shook himself free of that familiar remorse.  As he had said to Mackay, it was time to concentrate on the here and now.  Atonement for his sins, as Siegfried Schtauffen and as Nightmare, was impossible, but he would do what he could; perhaps the manner of his death might to some small degree make up for that of his life.

He turned at the sound of approaching footsteps, grateful for a distraction.  It was Mackay, a sheathed sword in his arms and a cheerful grin on his face.

"Here y'go, mate," he said as he approached, "A gift from her ladyship."

Raising an eyebrow Siegfried drew the blade a little warily from its ornate scabbard, his caution transforming to admiration as he did.  The five foot blade gleamed blue-silver in the sunlight, ornate engraved patterns tracing its slender length; a thing of beauty, to be sure.  It was not its beauty that enraptured him, though, but its craftsmanship and quality.  Its edge was so keen he could _see_ it, the balance so fine its weight seemed not a burden but a natural part of him.  He twirled it through one of his training patterns, marveling at how naturally it came to him; more than the past day and a half's training, the heft and feel of a fine blade brought out his old reflexes.  Spinning the sword through another sequence, heedless of the razor-bright blade slashing scant inches clear of his own skin, he laughed at how natural, how familiar, it seemed.

"I take it ye like it," Mackay observed, having edged away to what he considered a safe distance.  Schtauffen finished the pattern and swung the sword up to point skywards.

"It's a marvel," he agreed, "as fine a blade as I have ever seen."  He examined it as he spoke.  The weapon was rather slimmer than he was accustomed to, even before he had taken up Soul Edge's massive form; its blade was a shade less than two inches in width at its base and narrow in profile, but its exquisite balance more than compensated for the difference.  "Is this Ivy's work?"

"Ah… yes and no, I suppose," Mackay replied, frowning, "_Her ladyship_ had it custom made by Bartolome de Palencia, in Madrid."  Schtauffen nodded slowly; de Palencia was known throughout Europe and probably beyond as a master swordsmith.  "She's had it almost a year while I've been lookin' for ye.  That's Toledo steel there, best in the world.  She has an eye for quality, sure enough."

"Sure enough," Schtauffen repeated thoughtfully.  "That doesn't explain why she hired _you, though."_

Mackay chuckled, "Oh, charming.  Well, she can see the qualities _below_ my surface, y'see."

"She must be _very_ perceptive," Siegfried deadpanned.

"Aye, she must," Mackay retorted, "She took you on after all."

"That she did," the swordsman mused, sheathing the sword carefully.  _For my flaws rather than my qualities, however.  Mackay shrugged._

"Aye, well in truth she actually kind of inherited me, if ye must know."  At Schtauffen's questioning look he settled on the water barrel before continuing, "I did some work for her father, runnin' errands and such-"

"You knew her father?"  Schtauffen wasn't sure if he was more surprised that Mackay had known Ivy's father or at the revelation that she had even _had_ a father; he would as easily have believed that she had in fact formed herself full-grown out of her own arrogance.  "You are having me on, no?  How old were you?"

"Ten, I guess," Mackay replied defensively, "But ye grew up quick in my part of town.  I was cabin boy on the barque _Gryphon when I was eight, an' by the time I met His Excellency I'd seen most every port from Scotland to Greece.  Been in London maybe six months when I met him, lookin' for some old book down in the docklands.  Anyway, I knew the streets well enough by that time, and he was impressed, I suppose.  Kept me runnin' around doing jobs all over after that.  Had a fine old time, __and got paid for it."_

"What was he like?" Siegfried asked, curious in spite of himself.  Mackay smiled fondly.

"The Count?  Real gentleman.  Always polite, even to the likes of me – even…" his enthusiasm faded a little, his voice dropping, and he paused a moment. "Anyway, he always treated me well.  Real gent."

"Obviously Ivy doesn't take after him," Siegfried observed, smiling.  Mackay bolted to his feet, his eyes blazing.

"Ye watch yer tongue, Schtauffen," he snarled, "Her Ladyship is _every inch_ her father's daughter, an' I'll not hear a word against either of 'em!"

Siegfried raised his hands placatingly.  "Forgive me, Alastair," he replied, "It was a jest, and poorly considered.  You must admit that she can be quite harsh, though, no?"

Mackay glared at him a moment longer before deflating a little.  "Aye, well, she doesn't suffer fools gladly, and I can be a fool as often as not.  Ye don't understand at all, what happened with the Count-" He stopped abruptly, his face draining of colour and his eyes fixed on something over Schtauffen's shoulder.

Siegfried knew what – who – must have triggered that reaction even before the Scot started stuttering.  

"M'lady… I – we were – just-"

"I am well aware of what you were doing, Mr. Mackay," Ivy grated from behind him, "and I assure you that if you thought me harsh before now you really have no _idea just what that word can mean.  Speak another word on this subject and I __promise you will find out."_

"It's not his fault," Siegfried objected, turning to her, "I was curious and-"

"Do not think I am unaware of that, Schtauffen." She cut him off brusquely. "I will thank you to curb your curiosity in the future."  Her gaze brushed coolly across him.  "Are you ready?"

"Ready?"  Schtauffen repeated questioningly.  A moment later he blinked.  "You mean, ready to go?  There?" he pointed at the barren islet to the east, wondering why he almost always managed to sound like a barnyard idiot when speaking to her.

Judging by her expression Ivy was wondering the same thing.  "Yes, _there_, Schtauffen, where the devil did you _think I meant?"_

"I –" _Oh, forget it. "Never mind."  Sighing, he scooped up the hauberk from where it had fallen, "I'll be ready in a minute."_

As he fastened the ties Ivy dismissed Mackay with a curt toss of her head.  The Scotsman didn't need to be told twice, scurrying away as quickly as he could without actually breaking into a run.  A part of Schtauffen envied him, as the rest of his mind concentrated on his task.

Ivy watched him as he went through the motions, tapping one boot on the deck impatiently.  "I assume you can function in that," she said after a few moments.  Siegfried glanced at her, tugging the last of the ties fast and swinging his arms experimentally to test the weight.

"It's not what I'm used to," he said mildly, "but yes, I can _function."  He picked up the sword, slinging it over his back and cinching its strap.  "I thank you for this," he continued, tapping the hilt, "it's a beautiful blade, a work of art."_

"At the moment I have rather more faith in the blade than its wielder," Ivy replied acidly, but this time Siegfried resisted the urge to snap at the bait.  Shifting the sheathed blade slightly for comfort he slowly turned to her.

"Perhaps I shall surprise you."

She met his eyes, her expression unreadable.  

"Perhaps."  

Her gaze swung away to where a half-dozen sailors were readying the schooner's longboat.  "Let us go.  I would prefer to be back before nightfall."

"Afraid of the dark?"  The retort came out before he could stop it.  She did not turn as she replied, "It is _always_ night in the Pit, Herr Schtauffen, and the Guardian is a creature of the darkness.  One could do far worse than to fear him."

"The Guardian?" Siegfried asked, watching the boat as it was lowered.  "Some kind of beast?"

"A man.  From the little information my agents have uncovered, his name is Voldo – or was; I do not know if he goes by that name, or any name, now.  For more than a decade he has been the guardian of the Money Pit.  He was a loyal servant to Paolo Vercci, who had the Pit constructed-"

"I have heard of Vercci, certainly," Siegfried mused aloud.  "The Merchant of Death."

"So he styled himself." Ivy agreed, her lips curling into a sneer, "Vercci was a loathsome creature who dealt in human life and suffering.  He had his hand in every slave ring and fighting pit in the Mediterranean, and that was only the more respectable part of his empire.  His real specialty was in catering to the worst desires of the wealthy, fulfilling the most twisted wishes for enormous fees.  Some of those dealings would turn your stomach."

Schtauffen had heard rumours – everyone had – and he did not doubt what she said.  "And this Voldo was one of his servants?"

"His most trusted and favoured, though Vercci's favour was not of the kind most would wish to receive.  He was Vercci's bodyguard, emissary and champion."

A stray recollection clicked in to place and Schtauffen snapped his fingers.  "He is a tall man, yes?  With bindings about his face?"

"So your paths have crossed." Ivy did not sound surprised, "I thought they might have.  Yes, that is he."

"It was in Italy – Venice, I think.  He didn't seem that formidable," he said, "A strange fighting style, I grant you, but nothing I couldn't handle - and that was even before… well, you know," he finished weakly.  Ivy frowned.

"Do not underestimate him, Herr Schtauffen.  You may have had the best of him in your first encounter but this is quite different.  That," she nodded towards the island, "is _his territory.  I have done battle with him there once before; I barely escaped with my life.  I can assure you he will use his familiarity with the caverns to his advantage - we will need to watch our backs."_

Siegfried didn't answer, merely nodding thoughtfully.

"Madame?"  Rousseau bowed diffidently as he spoke, "The boat is ready to depart."  Ivy nodded acknowledgement and with a sweep of her arm slipped her cloak from her shoulders and tossed it to the first mate.

Siegfried felt his jaw drop - just a fraction, for which he was grateful.  The cut of her garb showcased her figure dramatically, the deep purple leather in striking contrast to the flawless alabaster of her skin.  _I have so many memories of being Nightmare, he thought, _so how did I _ever__ forget that outfit?  On reflection he supposed he hadn't exactly forgotten it; it just hadn't had the same… _impact_ on his former self._

For just a moment he felt an odd kind of pity for Nightmare.

Perhaps the strangest thing of all was that she seemed entirely unselfconscious.  Paying him no heed she swung gracefully over the railing and onto the rope ladder to descend to the boat, bobbing in the water below.

He remained still a moment longer, blinking in the sunlight, before shaking off his shock and glancing around a little sheepishly.  He caught Rousseau, wide-eyed, doing the same and they shared a look that really needed no words before Schtauffen followed her over the side.

She had taken position in the prow of the longboat, half-turned to look out at their destination, as he joined her.  He settled on the next bench with his back to her, facing Gaiardi at the tiller over the backs of the six oarsmen.  To his credit Gaiardi was managing not to stare, instead focusing on his duty as the longboat drew away from the _Bravura_.

"We shall need to progress with caution." Ivy said behind him, "The Guardian is only one of the menaces within; the Pit is laced with all manner of traps."

"Traps?" Siegfried repeated dubiously.  A Guardian was one thing; battle was something he was familiar with, something he understood, its dangers a part of his life.  The thought of dying in the machinations of some kind of trap was something else entirely.  "Lovely."

"They are a hindrance more than a danger," she replied coolly, "Clever devices to be sure, but with observation, time and patience they can be overcome.  Although," she paused, "time is a bit of a problem."

Siegfried shifted on his seat to look at her; she was still looking across at the island, her expression pensive.  "And why is that?"

She glanced sideways at him.  "There was an accident several years ago.  One of the traps – the most impressive, architecturally – was called Poseidon's Gate.  As its name suggests it was intended to flood the entire complex, drowning the triggering intruder before resetting and draining."

"That's actually true?" Schtauffen asked, wondering, "I heard once that Vercci drowned the architects and builders with such a trap when the Money Pit was completed – got them all together for a celebration and pulled the plug.  I thought it was just a myth."

"It is a rather… _melodramatic_ tale, is it not?"  Ivy smiled crookedly, "Though it may well be true; nothing I have learned about Paolo Vercci suggests that such an act would be in the least out of character.  One way or another, it is certain that all those who partook in the Pit's construction are now dead.

"In any case, Vercci's misdeeds eventually came home to roost.  In some ways the Money Pit is a single incredibly intricate mechanism; with its designers and creators dead it was inevitable that it would eventually start to break down and unfortunately for us one of the first parts to fail was Poseidon's Gate.  It has not failed completely, but the lower levels now flood at high tide."

"And high tide…"

"Is due tonight.  In four hours the complex will begin to flood."

"Of course it will," Schtauffen muttered, shaking his head, "Nothing is ever easy."  He frowned, "I don't suppose there's any chance that what we're looking for is on the upper levels?"

"Not _much chance," she replied, "The greatest treasures were reportedly kept in a vault at the very bottom of the pit, two hundred yards underground.  Given Vercci's obsession with the Soul Edge, that is where I imagine we will find the shards."_

Siegfried nodded resignedly.  "You're the expert."  A moment later he continued, "How do you _know_ all of this?  If the architects are dead…"

"Not all of them were so naïve as to believe that they would survive the experience without taking precautions.  Several attempted to guarantee their survival by concealing copies of their designs, presumably threatening that the copies would be revealed should they themselves come to harm.  Obviously their bluffs failed but some of their work remained to be found, though it took considerable effort."

As Ivy concluded she turned her attention past Siegfried to address Gaiardi.  "Bring us ashore there."  Raising her gauntleted left hand she indicated a narrow strip of sand, starkly white against the dark rocks.  

Siegfried took the moment to take a closer look at their destination.  The island was unprepossessing, a low hump perhaps four miles long with a jagged, rocky coastline and a sparsely forested interior.  It had an unkempt kind of beauty but there was nothing especially inviting about it, nor anything to distinguish it from a hundred such islets scattered the length of the Mediterranean.  Which he supposed was the point.

The scrape of sand under the hull snapped him out of his contemplation.  Ivy gave him a backhanded rap on the shoulder:  "Bring that."  She pointed to a leather bag at his feet, gathering a similar one herself before swinging over the side and into the ankle-deep water.  He was a few feet behind her as she strode onto the beach, turning back to address the crew. "Return to the ship.  Your captain knows to keep a watch for our signal."

As the crew went about their task Siegfried headed up the narrow beach.  The rocky walls rose above his head, though they looked climbable enough.  He eyed them appraisingly and turned to Ivy, who was rifling through her bag on one knee.

"What's in these?" he asked, patting the bag he had slung over his shoulder.  

Ivy didn't look up as she replied, "Lanterns.  Tools.  Rope."  Tying her bag shut she slung it and straightened, flicking her hair absently with one hand.  "We will need them all."  Brushing herself off she surveyed the wall.

"Beat you to the top," Schtauffen offered, smiling.  He felt as though he was buzzing with nervous energy, the prospect of action and purpose so very near.  Ivy gave him an exasperated glare.

"Don't be an idiot." she muttered scornfully.  He shrugged and started climbing.

"Have it your way.  I'll still be the one waiting at the top."

A minute later he hauled himself to his feet atop the rise and turned to watch her progress.  She ascended with agility and assuredness, but slowly enough to make it clear she had no intention of competing with him.  He could only smile wryly as he knelt and offered her a hand up which she did not accept.  

"Happy?" she asked sourly.  Siegfried shrugged.

"It would have been better if you had really tried."

"I am delighted to disappoint you, Schtauffen." she snapped, "If you are finished playing games we have business to attend to."  Without waiting for a response she stalked past him, ascending the shallow rise towards the island's centre.  Siegfried shook his head as he followed.

"I am aware of our business."

Ivy replied harshly.  "Are you?  Playing games and making jests?  Need I remind you that-"

He cut her off. "You do _not_ need to remind me.  Our task has my entire attention, I promise you."  He smiled sadly, though she could not see his face.  "In the meantime you will have to learn to accept that _I_ do not approach life in quite the same fashion that _you do."_

Ivy made no response to that, and Siegfried chose not to pursue it further.  The rest of the ascent was made in pointed silence, accompanied only by the whisper of the breeze through the trees and the faint cries of gulls overhead.  

After a half-hour Siegfried noticed the hard-edged silhouette of a building through the trees ahead and a minute later they emerged into a grassy clearing.  In its centre stood a small colonnaded building, white marble bright in the sunlight.  Ivy halted at the clearing's edge and Schtauffen drew alongside her, taking in the scene.

"The Shrine of Charon."  Ivy's voice startled him, so accustomed had he grown to the silence.  He glanced at her profile and then back at the ruins as she continued, "Charon was the ferryman of the underworld in the Greek pantheon, bringing the souls of the dead-"

"I _know who he was." Siegfried muttered, annoyed that she still felt the need to lecture him.  He felt rather than saw Ivy's eyebrows raise, her lips curling into a sly smile._

"Beauty and a classical education all in one package, you _do impress me.  What other surprises do you-"_

"Oh, shut_ up." he grunted irritably, stomping toward the shrine.  She said no more, but he could feel her smirking at his back as he passed under the gate._

The interior of the shrine was cool and dark; the windowless walls and roof were surprisingly intact, and little light was admitted through the arched doorway.  Siegfried halted just inside the threshold, allowing his eyes to acclimatise to the darkness.  A large statue dominated the room, overlooking an empty chamber with both floor and ceiling decorated with elaborate circular mosaics.

"It's in very good condition," he mused aloud.  He had seen many remnants of ancient civilisations in his travels, but few so intact.  _Indeed_, he thought, _it is almost **too well-preserved**_.

"That is because it is a fake," Ivy answered, confirming the suspicion forming in his mind.  "Among his other flaws Vercci had an impressive capacity for pretension.  He no doubt thought it very clever to mark the entry to the Pit as a passage to the underworld."

As she spoke she opened her bag and withdrew a shuttered lantern, carefully filling and lighting it.   Amber light cast the tall statue into sharp relief as she crossed the room towards it, pausing before it.

"Behold the face of Charon, known also as Paolo Vercci," she said mockingly as Schtauffen joined her.  From under the statue's cowl a gaunt visage stared blindly across the room.  The sculptor had worked wonders, capturing vitality and malevolence in every line of the aged face.  No doubt, Schtauffen thought, the unknown craftsman's reward had been that commodity with which Vercci had made his name synonymous.

"It is one of only two representations of his appearance I have come across," Ivy was saying.  "As I said, he had an impressive capacity for pretension."

"Where was the other?"

"In the Pit, below us.  You will not be able to miss it, I promise you; it is even more self-aggrandizing than this is."

Schtauffen looked around.  "I can't wait," he murmured, "So how do we gain entry?"

In response she turned back to the mosaic which adorned the floor, crossing to the side nearest the archway.  Dropping to one knee she placed the lantern on the floor beside her and skimmed gloved fingers across the colourful tiles, her eyes narrowed in concentration.  After a minute her hand came to rest on one stone, no different from the others to Siegfried's eye, and pressed.  The stone sank a half-inch into its setting and immediately she pressed another half a foot to its left, and then another three inches up – seven stones in all.  As the last sank into place the whole shrine seemed to tremble, a deep bass rumbling running through Siegfried's whole body as the mosaic began to sink into the ground.

As it lowered it seemed to divide into segments, the segments forming a spiralling stairway descending into darkness.  After almost a minute the rumbling ceased and a deathly stillness fell over the shrine.

Ivy took up the lantern and rose slowly to her feet.  At her side Schtauffen stared into the darkness.  The silence grew long.

"Do you sense the shard?" Ivy asked eventually.  Siegfried shook his head and she frowned.  "Perhaps… no matter.  Perhaps as we descend…" she paused, gazing downwards.  "Light your lantern, Herr Schtauffen.  We will want all the light we can bring."

Siegfried nodded soundlessly, his hands moving as though of their own accord to comply.  The lantern's warm glow was more comforting than he had expected, but the shadows seemed all the darker beyond the reach of its light.

_And so it is time_.  Schtauffen took a deep breath and started forward, but Ivy stopped him with a hand on his chest.

"I must go first," she said, raising her voice over his protest, "The traps, remember?"

He fell silent and stepped back as she started down the steps, casting a last glance at the sunlit doorway before descending in her wake.  The light of their lanterns faded from view.

Darkness returned to the Shrine.

******************

Author's Notes:  The original synopsis for this chapter was 'They go to the Money Pit.'  Writing is a _crazy_ pastime.  At least the way I do it…

I apologize for the delay in posting this chapter (or half-chapter, really, according to the original plan), but Soul Calibur II finally arrived and has been chewing up my time.  I'm trying to balance it a bit now.

Many thanks again to those who have reviewed – You Are Legends.  I really appreciate you taking the time. 

Fairly confident the next part is about a week away – though I've said that before…

In the meantime, be happy! And drive carefully.


	5. Scorpion's Lair

**_SINS OF THE DAUGHTER, SINS OF THE SON_**

Chapter 5:  _Scorpion's Lair_

By Kurt1K

Siegfried Schtauffen leaned warily forward, peering over the edge of the narrow stone bridge.  The darkness below yawned deep beyond the reach of his lantern's feeble light, an endless abyss awaiting the slightest mis-step to engulf him.

Grimacing he drew back, shifting his feet carefully on the smooth stone, and raised the lantern above his head.  The light barely reached the huge chamber's walls, their once-colorful frescoes now only dimly visible; evidently repeated and frequent submersion had not been part of the artists' plans.  From what he had seen of them it was better that way; the few images he had been able to make out had been unpleasant, even disturbing.

Clearly, he thought, Paolo Vercci had not simply merited his grim reputation; he had _reveled in it._

A few paces ahead of him Ivy was navigating across the walkway, her lantern held low.  The walkway glistened wetly in the lamplight, patches of moss and lichen dark against the stonework.  She was moving slowly, her eyes fixed on the stone bridge as she placed her feet one before the other with measured deliberation, wary of traps and the simple, deadly possibility of losing her footing on the slick stone.  Cautiously Siegfried advanced in her wake.

Something – a movement? A sound? – drew his eyes to the shadow-veiled ceiling, its vaulted height arching beyond the limit of his vision.  He stared at the space for a long moment, squinting as though he might somehow suddenly penetrate the darkness if he simply tried hard enough.

"Would you perhaps like me to leave you to your artistic contemplations, Herr Schtauffen, or would you care to keep up?"

Ivy had reached the far archway and was waiting for him with a casual but implicitly impatient stance that he felt sure she must have spent a long time perfecting.  He took one last glance at the ceiling before moving carefully to join her.

"I thought I heard something," he offered by way of explanation, shaking his head, "Might just have been my imagination."

Ivy made no reply.  Her eyes shifted, flickering over his head before she turned away.  

She began to descend the narrow stairway beyond the arch.  Siegfried followed her down, edgily aware of the dank walls closing in on either side.  The air was stale, heavy with the odours of salt water and rotting wood; there was a sense of oppressive weight about the closeness of the walls and ceiling which brought home just how far beneath the earth they were.  Here, too, there was water; it seemed to pervade the depths of the Pit, dripping from the arched ceilings and trickling between the massive stone blocks of the walls, as though the Mediterranean itself were eager for its next visit to the darkened halls of Vercci's tomb.

The thought was sobering.  By his reckoning it had taken them almost two hours to descend this far; with the time it had taken them to reach the Pit in the first place they had perhaps an hour and a half before that next visit fell due.  The deadline added considerable tension to the tightening knot of nervous anticipation that had been building in his gut since they had first entered the labyrinthine complex.

Ivy - _of course, Schtauffen thought sourly - seemed untouched by such trifling concerns; her infuriating poise seemed unshakable.  She had proceeded unhurried, carefully spiking and marking traps as she came to them as though she had all the time in the world.  As he watched she paused briefly, tapping the step below her lightly with the point of one boot._

"Avoid this step, and the next," she advised, taking a long stride over the two steps by way of demonstration.  Schtauffen, musing absently that he would not feel nearly so comfortable trying such a maneuver in those heeled boots, followed suit.

The stairway curved slowly as they progressed, emerging after a quarter-circle onto yet another narrow walkway built over an apparently bottomless drop.  He noted with some slight relief that this walkway at least was shorter, leading to a wide stone platform checkered with black and white marble flagstones.  Ivy stopped at the edge of the platform, crouching to examine the nearest tiles.  Behind her Siegfried rolled his eyes – _another wait - and turned to scan the rest of the chamber, or at least what little he could see of it._

Ivy straightened.  "Keep to the white tiles." She warned, starting to pick her way forward.  Schtauffen advanced to the platform's edge.

"Rather prosaic, isn't it?" he muttered.  "I expected something a little more complicated from the Merchant of Death."    

Ivy did not turn as she replied, "You would be wise to.  The traps are merely here to weed out the less worthy."  She continued to advance as she spoke. "I believe it amused him to ensure that the most capable treasure-seekers would cleverly circumvent the labyrinth's mechanical snares - only to meet their deaths at the hands of his most loyal servant.  I can just imagine him, laughing to himself at the thought of those poor fools believing that they had outwitted him.  Laughing, _laughing…"_

The distant timbre of her voice as she spoke those last words sent a chill through Schtauffen and he instinctively raised his lantern and his gaze to peer nervously into the false night.  For an instant he thought he saw movement at the edge of his vision, but when his eyes focused on the spot he could see nothing.  

"You seem to have an… _understanding_… of the man…" he said warily.  When she replied her voice had regained its usual tone – that cool, effortless superiority that could so easily set his teeth on edge.  Now, though, he was glad to hear it.

"Understanding an enemy is the key to defeating him, Herr Schtauffen.  Paolo Vercci was a despicable creature by any civilized standard, but he possessed a formidable and cruel intellect that it would be dangerous to underestimate."

"Is that what happened the last time you were here?"  Schtauffen braced himself for a storm, but his companion's unpredictable humours worked in his favour on this occasion; her response was reluctant rather than hostile.

"I underestimated the Guardian, which in a way is the same thing.  Understand that this was the first place my studies brought me upon my departure from England; I had never before encountered a foe who presented more than a fleeting challenge.  The Guardian was the first opponent I ever met who could battle me on my own level.  He was very nearly the last."

She reached the far edge of the platform as she spoke and turned, waiting for him.

"And this is the first time you've returned?"  Siegfried asked, surprised; he couldn't imagine her giving up that easily.

"I intended to return as soon as I recovered," Ivy replied, her tone suddenly casual, "but on making landfall in Genoa I heard rumours of an army ravaging the nearby countryside – an army under the command of a strange knight in azure armour - and chose to investigate.  Would you care to hazard a guess as to what I found?"

He did not need to guess, of course.  The response touched something within, dark memories stirring restlessly in his mind, and he fell broodingly silent.

It took him a few moments to realize that that was exactly what she had intended.  The casual facility of her manipulation shook him almost as much as it angered him, but he could think of no response that did not sound as though he were some child complaining about being treated harshly.

_I'll be damned if I'm going to give her the satisfaction of silence, though.  "So why was _this_ the first place you came to?"_

There was a momentary hesitation before her answer, as though the question had surprised her.  Siegfried smiled inwardly as she spoke.  

"Why…?  In his final years Vercci expended enormous resources searching for the Soul Edge.  His interest in the sword became an obsession that completely dominated the last years of his life…" At that her voice seemed to falter, but the lapse was so brief Schtauffen wasn't certain that he had not imagined it.  "Cervantes de Leon even secured it on his behalf, before deciding to take it up himself.  It seemed reasonable to assume that there might be some clues here, some knowledge that I might put to use in tracking it down."

"Do you still believe that?"

She shrugged, turning to continue down the next set of stairs, which seemed to spiral unsupported into the darkness.  "It _is_ possible that there is still useful information here, but I doubt it.  Our primary concern is locating the shard."  Pausing, she turned back.  "Can you _still_ not sense it?"

Schtauffen took a moment before shaking his head.  "No. Nothing.  How far are we from the vault?"

She considered briefly.  "It lies barely twenty yards below us.  I would have thought… you should _surely_ be able to feel the shard's presence by _now_."

"Well, I _don't_." Schtauffen's response was a trifle testy.  "Perhaps there _is no shard here after all."_

"Let us hope that is not the case," Ivy muttered.  "I am certain that Voldo obtained at least one fragment from southern Italy.  If it is _not_ here, it is because someone else has beaten us to the punch."

_That_, Siegfried had to agree, was not a pleasant thought.  "Perhaps I just need to be nearer."

"Perhaps." It was clear from Ivy's tone that she was not convinced.  A moment later she turned away.  "Come – neither time nor tide will wait for us."

He followed silently as she descended.  After several turns of the spiral he began to make out something emerging from the gloom below them – another stone platform apparently suspended in space, this one circular in shape.  Ivy raised her lantern high as she strode onto the platform, for once not studying the ground before her.

"No traps?" Schtauffen asked as he reached the floor behind her.  Ivy's voice drifted back:  "No traps.  Those who have made it this far have passed Vercci's tests and earned a death by the Guardian's hand."

"Does that mean we can expect a visit soon?"

"Soon – but not quite _yet."  Ivy had reached the edge of the platform.  As Siegfried neared her, his eyes warily probing the darkness around them, she stamped one foot firmly on the ground.  A heavy rumble reverberated through the dark chamber as stone by stone a narrow walkway rose out of the shadows, leading from the edge of the platform towards an archway now dimly visible in the near wall._

"Why not?" he asked as they watched the walkway take form.

"He will wait until we come before his Master." Ivy replied cryptically, starting across the walkway.  Shaking his head, Siegfried followed.

The archway led into a short, curving corridor, at the end of which Siegfried beheld the glow of torchlight.  A moment later he emerged, wide-eyed, into a vast marble hall.  Towering gothic arches formed its vaulted roof and its broad tiled floor stretched almost a hundred yards to end at the feet of a gargantuan statue which stood easily three stories high.  Torches burned brightly in sconces along the frescoed walls, revealing the entirety of the great hall to his astonished gaze.

"God in heaven…" he murmured, awe-struck.  "It's like a _cathedral."_

"Vercci intended precisely that comparison."  Ivy's voice was low.  "A legacy to rival the architectural wonders of Europe, all built far under the earth, in secret.  A tribute in stone to one man's hubris."  She shook her head slowly.  "Magnificent, is it not?"

"You sound almost admiring." Siegfried observed.  "I thought you despised the man's memory."

"You are quite correct," Ivy acknowledged, "but _this…"  She was lost in thought for a long moment before continuing:  "If the _worst_ among us could create such a wonder… what might the __best of us not aspire to accomplish?  What need do we have of a 'sword of power' when one man's will can achieve something like this?  I cannot help but wonder if Vercci's single greatest failing was simply that he did not realize that…"_

Siegfried stared at her back, momentarily at a loss for words.  When he found his voice he spoke hesitantly:  "I would not have thought…" He paused, unsure of what he was trying to say.

After a moment Ivy turned to him sharply, eyes narrowing.  "I apologize.  Apparently lingering here has resulted in my… absorbing… some of Vercci's notorious capacity for melodrama.  Do not concern yourself with my…"  Sighing, she shook her head as though to clear it.  "Let us just concentrate on our task."

Schtauffen nodded wordlessly.  As they advanced down the length of the great hall he let his eyes wander, at once wary and fascinated.  His experienced eye took in details:  the floor, he noted, stopped two yards short of the walls, a quick glance over the edge showed a drop into darkness, his lamplight revealing nothing but a night-black void.  As he raised his eyes they fell upon one of the torches burning along the wall and he realized – with only mild surprise – that they burned steady and smokeless, their reddish light unflickering.

"Simple alchemical trickery," Ivy explained, following his gaze.  "Such torches will burn for no more than a quarter of an hour."

"He's been watching our progress."  Siegfried muttered.  He had until that moment held out a faint hope that the Guardian might have been absent, or perhaps even dead.  Evidently that was not the case.  Reaching up he drew his sword slowly, senses alert and on edge.  "Lit the lamps and rolled out the carpet."

Ivy nodded, her own gaze carefully sweeping the room.  "He is an attentive host." 

As they spoke they approached the base of the huge statue.  The towering figure was carved sitting in a great chair and garbed in extravagant clothing of Italian style.  The face was unmistakably the same that graced the statue of Charon, far above:  ten times his size in life, Paolo Vercci sat his marble throne with the arrogant bearing of a Caesar.

"I see what you meant upstairs."  Schtauffen murmured, gazing up at the haughty visage for a long moment.  Ivy did not respond, approaching the base of the stone-carved chair which he now noticed was intricately engraved and patterned.  She cast one final glance about her before briefly skimming her hands across the marble facing, pressing two images a yard apart.  With a faint rasp the marble parted before her to reveal another torchlit corridor.

Ivy turned back to him.  "This is the last doorway.  Within lies the vault, and the final resting place of the Merchant of Death himself.  I do not believe that the Guardian will allow-"

She fell silent as without warning the great chamber plunged into darkness.  Schtauffen cursed, wheeling blindly; their lanterns were still lit, but in the moment it took his eyes to adjust to the sudden change something slammed into his chest, driving him from his feet to land heavily on the stone floor.  Gasping for breath he was vaguely aware of the tinkle of shattering glass as his lantern smashed beside him, a pool of flickering flame spreading from it as it rolled away.

The instinct which made him twist aside from the flames saved his life as bright steel flashed in the firelight, striking sparks from where he had lain.  Rolling to his feet he swore again as another brilliant, clawlike blade speared out of the darkness; he raised his sword by pure reflex to hammer it aside as he backed away, seeking room to move.

Schtauffen could see his assailant now like a ghost at the edge of the firelight, pallid and long-limbed.  He moved sinuously, a serpent in human form, slithering to and fro as he circled the young German; the constant motion, unsettling enough by light of day, was utterly inhuman in the unsteady light of the fire.  For a moment they studied one another, Schtauffen unnervingly certain that the Guardian was somehow meeting his gaze from behind the bindings which covered his eyes.  Carefully, never taking his eyes from the undulating figure, Schtauffen unslung the toolbag from his shoulders and let it drop to the floor.

Something echoed in his mind – a faint voice, musical and indecipherable.  Suddenly Voldo was moving, springing backwards as steel sang through the air in his wake.  Silhouetted in the light of the lantern she had left on the floor behind her Ivy retracted her weapon as she strode forward, her bearing arrogantly nonchalant.  Her voice echoed through the hall: "Do you remember _me_, Guardian?" 

Siegfried suppressed an absurd urge – _He's not **that** blind, he wanted to say – and concentrated instead on watching their opponent.  The Guardian's head swayed from side to side, watchful and appraising.  His constant, fluid movements were confusing, distracting, misleading…_

Too late Siegfried realized that the Italian was fading back into the darkness; he lunged in pursuit, sweeping his zweihander back to strike, but Voldo was gone.

With a snarl he swung around, staring into the shadows, chest heaving.  A few yards away Ivy turned and paced slowly towards her lantern, the idle tapping of her sword against her leg a sharp contrast to the watchful, purposeful sweep of her eyes as she walked.  Schtauffen moved warily after her, senses straining against the encroaching darkness.

This time the only warning was the sudden lift of her head and the narrowing of her eyes as they shifted upwards.  Raising his head he glimpsed that eyeless, mouthless face as it dropped silently from the shadows above, hissing wordlessly behind those murderous blades.  Again old reflexes saved him, his sword flashing upwards to clash against the katars. The combination of Voldo's weight and momentum hammered him to his knees as the Guardian pushed off to somersault clear; barely had he touched the floor before springing once more to the attack, skittering in low like a great insect.  Schtauffen blocked the first blow, and the second, and even the third; the fourth slid past his guard, brushing past as he flinched aside, but the fifth found its mark, ripping across his stomach.  The katar's deadly edge was turned by his mail armour, but the impact was bruising even through the mail links and the quilted cloth underneath.  As he staggered Voldo struck again, and again, slashing at the armour on his chest and legs, the ferocious onslaught giving him no respite to recover.

Again that faint song sounded in his head, cutting through the haze of pain.  The hail of blows stopped abruptly as a steel serpent coiled about the Guardian's right arm, staying its strike.  Behind him Ivy hauled back on her sword-whip with all of her considerable strength, yanking the Guardian backwards through the air.  Voldo twisted in mid-flight, both feet lashing out to take her full in the shoulder in the split-second she was within his reach and sending her tumbling.  The Ivy blade released its grip, springing back as both combatants hit the ground in the same instant; Voldo landed catlike on the balls of his feet and the point of one katar as Ivy rolled into a crouch, glaring daggers.

The silence that followed was all the more startling in the aftermath of the flurry of violence; for a long moment the only sound was the faint _drip_, _drip of water and that incessant, incomprehensible singing in his head – _Ivy's sword_, he suddenly realized.  Siegfried straightened slowly, painfully aware of every bruise and scratch, his arms already heavy from his exertion.  As he watched the momentary stand-off an unpleasant awareness blossomed anew in the back of his mind.  The thought had crossed his mind before, and he had dismissed it.  Now, watching this battle unfold in the bowels of the earth, he could no longer ignore the simple, deadly truth._

_I'm not ready_.

Voldo lunged at Ivy, leading with his blades:  a human spear flung low and fast.  She twisted to the side, her sword slashing bare inches over his head as he passed.  Landing blades first he whipped over onto his back, scuttling back toward her on toes and knife-points; Ivy met his rush with her whip-sword awhirl.  They clashed, separated, and clashed again, the dance of flashing steel almost too swift for his eyes to follow – and then Voldo was gone once more into the darkness, mere inches out of the reach of Ivy's tremendous parting swipe.  The Englishwoman took two long steps in pursuit before visibly reining herself in and halting - still, silent, watchful.  

**_I'm not ready._**

The realization was as unpleasant as it was inevitable.  There had been a time when Siegfried Schtauffen could, without presumption, have counted himself amongst a scant handful of men and women whose skills and strength set them on a plateau far above and beyond other warriors - but that time was past.  He had spent the past two years running and hiding, and for much of it his favourite hiding place had been the bottom of an ale keg.  His skills had been tested against nothing more formidable than half-starved brigands and scruffy mercenaries, and he had dared to believe that a few days' sparring could make up for that neglect of his skills and his body.  Now he knew that to have been folly.

"I'm… not ready."

The sound of his own words surprised him; he had not meant to give voice to his thoughts.  Ivy's head tilted a fraction at his words but she did not look at him; her profile was sharp-edged against the lamplight as she replied.

"I know."

More than her words, there was something in her callous tone that told him that not only did she know _now_, but that she had known from the start.  Anger blossomed within him, but before he could begin to respond they both wheeled at the faint scrape of metal on stone.  Schtauffen glimpsed Voldo splayed across the stone wall like a pale spider for just an instant before the Guardian hurled himself once more to the attack.  Diving under Ivy's swift lash he landed in a half-crouch before Siegfried, gathering himself before launching into a spinning, twisting pirouette – a whirling flurry of limbs edged with flashing steel.  

For the third time in two minutes Schtauffen found himself on the defensive, barely able to fend off the furious assault.  Frustration welled up inside the young knight, fueled by his anger at Ivy and lending strength to his arms; smashing the katars aside he pressed ahead as Voldo whirled backwards.  For one brief moment he had the initiative, but he was slow, so _slow… even as he swung his sword in a great downward stroke the balance shifted again.  The Guardian spun aside and the zweihander splintered the marble floor where he had stood, the momentum of the blow carrying Schtauffen past him.  For an instant he lost track of his opponent, sweeping his sword in a wide circle to keep the Guardian at bay as he regained his bearings._

Steel rang on steel behind him and he spun to see Voldo and Ivy join battle once again.  Sweeping low Voldo scored a shallow cut along the Englishwoman's leading leg, drawing a snarl of pain and anger from her lips; fury lighting her eyes, she counterattacked with ferocity beyond anything Schtauffen had yet seen from her.  Striding forward her sword was a whirlwind of razor-edged steel as she lashed him relentlessly, her savage laughter ringing through the shadowed hall.  The Guardian's katars were a blur as he parried blow after blow, but the sword-whip snaked past his guard again and again, opening long, painful wounds along his limbs and torso.

Suddenly Voldo catapulted himself forward, heedless of the injuries he had sustained, and with the speed of a striking snake dived between two of Ivy's whip-slashes, slithering between her feet to arise behind her.  As she started to turn he sprang upon her, wrapping his long legs around her waist and drawing one arm back to strike, but before the blow could fall Ivy threw herself backwards, her full weight driving him into the floor with a stunning impact which loosened his grip.  The two rolled apart but as they came to their feet sprang together again, their blades striking sparks as they clashed.  As their weapons parted Ivy gave Voldo a backhanded smash with her gauntleted fist and the Guardian staggered backwards.  Siegfried seized the moment, pivoting and throwing all of his weight and might into one tremendous rising stroke; his sword scribed a brilliant silver arc through the darkness only to whisper harmlessly over Voldo's form as he dropped to all fours.  

Momentum carried the sword inexorably on through its killing arc to carve a bloody furrow across Ivy's face, snapping her head sideways and laying her cheek open to the bone.

For just an instant her startled eyes met his horrified ones; her expression registered only shock as she took a faltering step back, too startled to even cry out - and in that moment Voldo was there, pivoting on one knifepoint to plant both feet in her stomach and slam her backwards into the near wall.

Impacting heavily Ivy bounced limply from the wall and started to drop into the dark chasm below.  With a wild lunge Schtauffen hurled himself into a sliding dive across the floor, his outflung hand closing about her gauntleted wrist.  Her momentum wrenched him forward half over the edge before his scrabbling fingers found purchase between two of the marble flagstones, halting his headlong slide.  For a moment he teetered precariously on the edge of darkness, gasping for breath.

A moment later he felt Ivy's hand twitch and grimaced as it closed about his forearm, its steel-taloned grip painful even through his leather gauntlet.  Gritting his teeth, Siegfried was readying himself to draw her back up when a rasping breath sounded above him.  Twisting his head about, his eyes widened as Voldo's pale visage loomed near, dimly silhouetted in the light from Ivy's lantern.

For an instant the Guardian seemed to meet his gaze - then, rearing back, he brought both katars down in a killing stroke.  Schtauffen twisted desperately aside and Voldo's blades glanced off the marble floor, but the young German's frantic writhing had already finished the Guardian's task; flailing wildly, Siegfried slid over the edge and plunged into the darkness beyond.

As they fell the Guardian turned to face the towering effigy of his master and prostrated himself with a flourish, the triumphant _hiss of his breath echoing through the silent hall._

***************

Author's Notes:

Note to self – Never, _never,_ **_never_** promise a particular time for an update - you should know better!

Ahem.

I apologise… again… for the delay between postings.  Didn't help having to restart this chapter halfway through, though I'm glad I did now.  The next part – well, I'll promise only that it _will_ be posted when it's done.  Hopefully quite soon – but I can't say exactly when. (_A week!__ A week!)_

Once more, my sincere thanks to all of you who have reviewed.  I would tell the story anyway – but you make the process so much more rewarding.  I hope I can live up to expectations.

So until next time, Be Excellent To Each Other – And Party _On_, Dudes.


	6. Blind Man's Buff

**_SINS OF THE DAUGHTER, SINS OF THE SON_**

Chapter 6:  _Blind Man's Buff_

By Kurt1K

_If you're in pain, you're still alive._

As Siegfried's head burst out of the freezing water he found that quote echoing in his head.  It had been a favourite of one of his sword masters and the man had drilled it into him at every opportunity.

_By that standard I'm alive all right_, he thought wryly.  He had serious doubts that that state of affairs would last long – a longtime acquaintance of Death, he could feel its cold presence all about him - but he was not about to yield to that particular destiny without a fight.

The water was not deep, but without it he imagined he would be even worse off.  The ground under him was uneven and rocky; had the water not cushioned him he would have been lucky to survive.  Even so the fall had been punishing; at first it seemed that he must have broken every bone in his body at least twice, but of course since he was still able to move that was _probably not the case.  His left side had borne the brunt of the impact, arm and shoulder pierced by bright daggers of agony at the slightest provocation.  The arm would not move, he noted with glum surprise – dislocated, or broken._

For a moment he sat in silence, trying to gather his wits.  Sitting, the water came almost to his neck; it was numbingly cold, for which he was almost grateful.  Its quiet lapping was the only sound he could hear, and he could see nothing at all.

Something shifted under his legs and water and noise exploded at his side.  With a rush of alarm he remembered that he was not alone here in the darkness and he scrambled to rise, ignoring the warning flashes of pain which shot through his body at the sudden movement.

Ivy came up noisily, coughing water and gulping for air.  Schtauffen bent to aid her, fumbling in the dark with his good arm until his hand brushed against the cold steel of her armoured pauldron.  Her ragged, wheezing breaths transformed into violent coughing as he tried to help her stand and she pushed him aside.

The outburst faded and for a long moment her rasping breathing was all he could hear.  He edged closer, reaching out tentatively to take her elbow, but she shrugged him off once again with an impatient noise and he backed away again.

"Do you need a hand?" he offered eventually, his voice hesitant.  Ivy did not reply, but the swish of water told him she was moving.

She had gone barely a step when her movement ended abruptly in a splash and a hissed curse.  Schtauffen instinctively stepped forward, blundering into her where she had fallen to one knee.  She did not protest this time as he helped her rise.

"Careful," he cautioned her – a little belatedly, he supposed – as she straightened, "the floor's pretty rough."

She shook her head, wet hair brushing his face as she slung an arm across his shoulders for support.  "I - no… it's my leg."

As they began to move – Ivy seemed to have a firm idea where she wanted to go – he noted that she was indeed favouring her near leg heavily.  Voldo had marked her there, he remembered, but not badly; she must have injured it further in the fall… or when he landed on her, as he was fairly sure he had.

There was a ringing in his head which it took him a moment to identify, and he suddenly realized where Ivy was headed.  After a half-dozen steps she drew away from him, lowering herself carefully to kneel down.  A moment later the whisper of steel as she sheathed her retrieved sword signaled the end of the faint music.

Ivy remained kneeling a few moments longer before straightening and abruptly light flared about her, faint but still startling.  Schtauffen instinctively raised his good hand to shield his narrowed eyes. 

Gradually, blinking, his eyes adjusted to the sudden change and he lowered his hand to take in what he could see.  They appeared to be in a natural cavern, the walls rising out of the thigh-deep waters rocky and irregular.  He could not make out the roof above them; the walls rose beyond the light's reach.

The Englishwoman rose slowly.  He could see now that the light was coming from the palm of her hand, what looked to be a small glowing stone - a product, he supposed, of her sorcery or alchemy.  Wondering, he lifted his eyes to her face.

Part of him immediately wished that he had not.

In the pale light Ivy was a ghastly sight.  Blood loss and fatigue had drained her colour to bone-white, her eyes sunk deep in shadowed sockets.  The terrible gash that ran from chin to cheekbone was still bleeding, staining the curves of shoulder and breast below it.  The sight sickened him; not so much the injury in itself, but the knowledge that he had inflicted it, however accidentally.

_She would have been better off coming here alone_.

The thought reminded him of their brief exchange during the battle and he felt his guilt simmer into anger.  He pushed the feeling aside; they had other concerns now.

"Where are we?"

Ivy was surveying their environment much as he had, raising the light above her head.  "A natural cavern, below the Money Pit," she said, her voice muted from trying to speak without moving her jaw.

"We're _under_ the Pit?  I thought the vault was at the bottom."

"It is." Ivy murmured, "This is below the worked areas.  The original plans extended further, but Vercci changed them.  I think he feared he would die before the Pit was completed and so shortened the construction.  If that is indeed the case he was proven right – he barely survived to see it completed as it is."

Schtauffen squinted upwards, a new thought coming to him.  "Do you think the Guardian will follow us down here?"

"I am surprised that he has not done so already." Ivy mused, following his gaze. "He _was_ injured… perhaps that is why."

Siegfried nodded slowly.  Ivy had dealt the Guardian some brutal blows in their last exchange; she would almost certainly have bested him if – he shook his head angrily.  _Damn it_, he thought angrily.  **_Damn it_.**

"Do not concern yourself with this."

He looked at her to see her tracing the wound on her face with one thumb.  "I – what?"  _Is she reading my mind now?_

"If we are to escape this we must both be at our best."  Her mouth quirked into a near-smile, bitter and ironic.  "Or as close as we can manage, in any case.  You cannot be distracted or burdened by this.  We… shall deal with it at a later time.  You understand?"

Schtauffen nodded grimly.  "I do."

"Very well, then."  She cast a critical eye over him.  "Let me take a look at your arm."

******

"Paco!"

Francisco del Castellar turned at the call, smiling as he recognized the tall, broad form of Heinrich Rader striding towards him down the length of the cloisters.  Carefully closing the elaborately illuminated text he had been studying he rose from his seat as the big Bavarian approached, wincing at a twinge in his thigh.  

_You're getting old, Paco_, he thought wryly.  As the man neared del Castellar noted his face was pale and weary under his black beard, the rustle of mail audible under his long cloak.

"Heinz, my good friend."  The two men clasped forearms as he spoke.  "What news from the world?"

"_Much_ news - all of it disturbing." the other man replied.  "I've just come from old Giordano.  He commands your 'immediate attendance as a matter of urgency'."

del Castellar raised an eyebrow at the German's sardonic tone but bowed his head in acquiescence.  "In that case would you be so kind as to bring this volume back to my chamber?  I would as soon not leave it out here – our brother librarian has already berated me for carelessness with his charges twice this week."

Rader grinned, taking the book from him.  "We'll speak when you get back."

"No doubt."  del Castellar turned and started down the sun-dappled passage.  After a half-dozen paces he paused, turning back.  "By the way, Heinrich, it would be more appropriate to refer to Cardinal Giordano by his full title.  I would appreciate it if you would make the effort, for me if not for him."

The German frowned; he seemed about to reply, but merely bowed stiffly.  The older man smiled faintly before asking, "_Is_ it a matter of urgency, Heinz?"

Rader's expression darkened and he nodded curtly.  "Yes."

The Spaniard nodded resignedly as he turned and trudged away.

It took him a little over half an hour to reach the Cardinal's offices on the Via del Quirinale.  There the Cardinal's assistant, a gangly young priest whose name the Spaniard could never quite remember, announced him immediately.

Filippo Giordano was over eighty years old and looked older still, the rich scarlet vestments of his office contrasting sharply with the spotted pallor of his papery skin.  He had been a big, powerful man in his youth and traces of it still showed in his wide shoulders and thick neck, but age had bowed his back and shackled him to the high-backed chair in which he now sat.  His dark eyes were still clear, however, and the mind behind them still sharp.

"It is good to see you again, Francisco."  Giordano's tone suggested it was anything but.  "How goes the monastic life?"

del Castellar smiled.  "I find that it suits me.  After a life out and about in the world-"

"Good, good."  The Cardinal cut him off brusquely.  "You know I have just received a visit from your old associate Heinrich Rader, yes?"

"So much he told me, yes."

"Hm."  Giordano's eyes fell to the parchments spread across his desk.  "He has brought reports from a number of our agents.  The contents are… disturbing."  Del Castellar nodded silently, grim suspicion hardening into certainty as Giordano continued.  "Cults devoted to Ares and Palgaea are springing up in every city from London to Jerusalem and beyond. A galleon lit by ghostly fire has been seen passing through the Straits of Gibraltar.  Lizards that walk like men and other abominations are openly attacking towns in northern Africa and Asia."  He raised narrowed eyes.  "Does any of this sound familiar?"

Without waiting for a response Giordano slammed his hands palm-down onto the desk, his voice rising to a shout.  "It is happening again!  Two years ago you told me it was done with, that this… this _demon_ had been destroyed.  I _reported as such to the Holy Father.  And now it happens __again!"_

It took del Castellar a few moments to collect his thoughts.  "I saw the demon's army defeated and destroyed.  Nightmare fell and… the demon within him… I believed that was destroyed.  I-"

"Clearly you were in error."  The Cardinal had mastered his temper while the Spaniard spoke; his voice was calm once more.

"Yes…"  del Castellar hung his head, shamefaced.  "Yes.  The failure is mine.  If you would honour me with your trust once again I will finish this once and for all."

"Of _course_ you have my trust," Giordano replied silkily, "but you are no longer young, my friend.  Your long struggle against this evil has wearied you, and the Order you served – well, you are the last, are you not?  This needs a younger hand, a… _stronger hand.  I have decided to place responsibility for this undertaking in the hands of the Knights of Malta."_

The Spaniard glanced up sharply.  "The - your grace?  The Knights have never before contended with such a foe.  They will not be properly prepared, and I have _seen_ with my own eyes the grievous toll such unpreparedness may exact!"

Giordano smiled expansively.  "I have no doubt that you are correct, Francisco.  That is why you will convey the command to Malta personally, and place yourself at the disposal of the Grand Master."

"I see."  del Castellar's voice was weary.  By contrast the Cardinal's was almost buoyant.

"Of course you do.  Naturally, they will benefit from your expertise and knowledge.  You should take ship to Malta as soon as practicable.  Present this letter to the Grand Master upon your arrival, and offer him whatever assistance you can.  Is that quite clear?"

"Quite clear, Your Excellency."  The Spaniard replied almost automatically.

"Excellent."  Giordano smiled in satisfaction.  "You may go."

del Castellar made his way back to the abbey in something of a daze, his mind whirling.  _It happens again_?  He remembered the Battle of Ostrheinsburg as though it was yesterday, and the years of conflict that had preceded it were equally fresh in his memory.  He had lost many friends and comrades in that long struggle, and when it was over – when he had _believed it was over – he had wanted nothing more than to leave it all behind.  The life of monastic seclusion to which Giordano had banished him in his haste to eradicate the terrible truths of the matter had been a welcome respite._

Apparently the victory had been a false one.

"There you are, Paco.  I was beginning to wonder."

The voice startled him; it took him a few moments to regain his bearings.  He was a little surprised to find himself in the courtyard of the abbey, Rader watching him curiously.  He smiled wanly.

"I… I'm sorry, Heinz, I was a little distracted."

"I'm not surprised," the Bavarian replied gruffly, "You know, I was _just_ starting to believe it was over."

del Castellar sighed heavily.  "I, too."  He sat down, suddenly weary, and raised his tired face to look at the other man.  "Cardinal Giordano is… not pleased.  He feels that the Knights of Malta are better suited to deal with this."

Rader's face creased in a frown.  "The Hospitallers?  Huh."  He shook his head.  "He's crazy.  What do _they know about dealing with something like this?"_

"I cannot say, but I would not imagine that they know _enough about it," del Castellar murmured, "Which I suppose is why he's sending me there - to share my experience with them."_

Rader harrumphed.  "He probably doesn't mind that it gets you out of Rome, either."

"Probably not," del Castellar agreed, "but still, he may have a point.  It's not as though I've done all that well, is it?  Perhaps…"

"Damn it, Paco," Rader growled, "you're still so bloody eager to take the blame for everything that happened.  It wasn't your fault and you damn well _know_ it."

The Spaniard sighed again, meeting Rader's angered glare steadily.  After a moment he nodded wearily, squaring his shoulders as he drew in a deep breath.  "I know.  Thank you, Heinz.  I just wish…"

The German nodded understanding.  "Yeah.  Me too."

"Well."  del Castellar stood, straightening.  "I suppose I had best begin my preparations."  He clasped Rader's hand.  "It has been good to see you again, Heinz.  I wish it had been under different circumstances."

"Don't we all," the German's grin turned wolfish, "but don't think you're getting rid of me that easily, Paco."

The Spanish knight smiled sadly.  "I cannot ask you to accompany me, Heinz."

"I know."  Rader replied, "That's why I'm doing it."  He smiled grimly.  "Partly, anyway."

del Castellar did not need to ask why else the German was interested; he shared some of the same feelings – a determination to see the matter ended, once and for all.  A desire for redemption of their previous failure.

And, he had to admit, an opportunity to avenge fallen friends.  He knew Rader felt the last keenly; though he could not approve of the motive, he could not deny that a part of him felt it too.  _All fuel for the fire, I suppose, he thought, _but we will need to tread carefully – our enemy is all too adept at twisting our desires_._

He did not allow the thought to show as he smiled at Rader again, broadly this time.  "Thank you, Heinz.  I will be glad of your company."

"Not just mine, Paco," Rader was grinning smugly now, "I figured we'd be heading out after this news so I chased up Elè and Andreas on the way here.  They're back at the inn - if they haven't killed each other while I've been gone."

del Castellar chuckled, shaking his head.  "What would I do without you, my friend?  How are they?"

"Still bloody young." grunted Rader, "Depressing, really."

"You should not complain," the Spaniard grinned, "Even _you look young to me."_

Rader gave him a wry look, scratching absently at one graying temple.  "Huh."

"I tell you what," the older man continued, "Tonight we will dine at your inn, the four of us.  It will be good to catch up.  Then tomorrow we can begin this task in earnest."

"Sounds a fine plan," Rader smiled somberly, "The calm before the firestorm, eh?"

"Yes.  I will pack quickly and join you."  One of the advantages of the monastic life, he reflected, was that packing was a very short process.

"I'll wait."  Rader agreed.  del Castellar turned and headed for his cell, stopping as the German called after him.  "Paco?"

"Yes?"

"You do know we're going to have to make certain this time, yes?"

"You're referring to the Schtauffen boy?"  del Castellar sighed.  He had known this would come up.   "I know.  I should have listened to you two years ago."

Rader frowned.  "That's not what I'm trying to say, Paco.  You had good reason – but this time, we _will have to kill him."_

"Yes."  The Spaniard replied sadly.

Neither man spoke for a long moment.  del Castellar turned and shuffled away to his packing, leaving Rader's dark-robed form alone in the silent garden.

*****

"Is that painful?"

"Do you _care_?" Siegfried hissed through gritted teeth.

Ivy made no spoken reply to the query, but her steel-sheathed fingers probed his wounded shoulder with such painful force as to make the answer clear.  After a moment she lifted his arm abruptly, rotating it experimentally as Schtauffen ground his jaw and kept tears from his eyes through sheer force of will, shifting on the rough shelf of rock he was using as a seat.

"Hm."  

"What does _that_ mean?"

"Dislocated." Ivy's assessment was brisk and clinical.  Schtauffen had barely opened his mouth to reply when the world seemed to explode in a burst of light and pain so intense he could not even manage to scream.  Rearing back his head struck the rough stone wall, but that was nothing to the fire in his shoulder; he shoved Ivy back, gasping as the motion sent new waves of fire radiating from the joint.

"God _damn_ it, woman!"  His voice was raw with pain as he slumped, panting.  "Do you have some kind of… _moral_ objection to giving fair warning?"

"Oh, stop whining.  It had to be done and warning you would hardly have made it less painful."

Schtauffen scowled at her.  _It's not worth it_, he cautioned himself.  "Right." he muttered finally.  He pushed himself to his feet, wincing as he rolled the arm experimentally before speaking.  "How about your leg?"

Ivy met his gaze with slightly narrowed eyes and then shrugged.  "It would be best if the wound were bound, but we cannot do that here.  I was carrying some salves and bandages we might use to treat and bind cuts, but they are in my bag.  I will simply have to endure it – and conceal the weakness from our foe, if possible."

Schtauffen frowned, remembering how badly she had been limping.  "It looked pretty bad, Ivy."  He dropped his eyes to her leg, but in the dim light he could see little beyond the pale curve of her hip.  "You're sure?"

"Yes."  Her response was clipped and quite final.  "We need to try and climb back up to the vault level, and we need to do it _soon.  Our light will not last long, the Guardian will not likely leave us in peace indefinitely, and even if he _were_ to do so we have a time limit that is beginning to feel pressing."_

He couldn't argue with that.  By his reckoning that less than an hour remained before the Pit began flooding and being at its bottom level at that time was not an attractive prospect.  "How far do you think we fell?"

"Perhaps ten or twelve yards."  Ivy answered, her eyes following his upward.  

"Can you climb with that leg wound?"

Ivy smiled coldly, her face a deathmask in the pale light.  "Given the alternative?  I'll manage."

*****

"They're dead."

The tracker emerged from the trees as she spoke, dusting her breeches with one hand.  She was a tall young woman, whip-lean and sinewy in her battered leathers, her dark eyes grim. "Wilhelm, Jakob – all of them."

Jorgen Dietrich cursed under his breath as mutters rippled through the men behind him.  "What happened?"  

The woman did not respond immediately; fists on her hips she stared at the ground, one heel scuffing at the dirt.  "Anna! What happened up here?"

Snapped out of her contemplation the tracker lifted her eyes to his face.  "Oh - sorry, boss.  Looks like they tried an ambush and… well, it didn't work. Obviously."

"He killed 'em all?"  Dietrich asked unbelievingly.  

Anna shook her head.  "He wasn't alone.  I think there were three of them."  She looked back down the slope, shaking her head.  "Some of the wounds… I've never seen anything like them.  Must have been that English witch we were warned about."

"Still," Dietrich mused, "Three against ten…"  He was rather taken aback.  Wilhelm Becker had been an excellent swordsman, almost as good as he himself; to be killed along with half a dozen others...  "Siggi's improved." he muttered, "A lot."

"I'd say the Englishwoman killed most of them, including Wilhelm and Jakob." Anna interjected.  Dietrich grimaced; he hadn't really taken the dire warnings about the Countess Valentine to heart, and he knew Wilhelm had been even more skeptical about the Frenchman's advice.  _Guess we were both wrong, Willi_.

"You say they were trying to _ambush them?"_

Jorgen turned his attention to the new speaker as Anna nodded.  "Yeah, looks like it."

The woman shifted in her saddle to meet Dietrich's gaze, her grey eyes pale in the sunlight.  "I asked you to make it clear to your men that they were merely to keep watch, Herr Dietrich."

"I did, ma'am." Dietrich replied levelly, inwardly furious with Becker for putting him in this situation. "I'm sure Wilhelm had his reasons for doing it."

"It looks like they were headed down towards Bastia," Anna supplied helpfully, "maybe Willi thought he might lose them."  

Dietrich nodded, shooting her a grateful glance.  "Yeah, that's probably it.  He wouldn't have acted without reason, ma'am, I can tell you that."  It wasn't entirely true - Wilhelm could be overconfident and impulsive at times – but there was no need to complicate matters by mentioning _that_.

The noblewoman looked at him, her gaze tinged with suspicion.  Dietrich was careful to maintain his casually deferential demeanour; although the Viscountess clearly had little experience in dealing with mercenaries, she was neither stupid nor unperceptive.  Eventually she nodded.  "Yes… all right.  From all accounts, if the Lady Isabella was here they probably didn't have much choice.  You believe they were headed for Bastia?"

The last was directed at Anna, who nodded.  "That's how it looks.  One rider, and a horse and cart."

"Then might we perhaps re-acquire their trail there?"  She looked at Dietrich, brows raised.

"We can try, ma'am."  At his response she nodded approval.  Dietrich signaled his men to start the descent, wheeling his horse about.  As he did he noticed the Viscountess looking at him somberly.

"Captain Dietrich…" she said softly, "if you wish to take the time to bury your fallen I have no objection."

Dietrich shook his head.  "Won't do 'em any good, ma'am, now will it?"  He let his smile turn savage, as much to see her reaction as to emphasize his next words.  "Way I see it, all I can do for 'em now is avenge 'em."

The woman tensed at his expression, but her features hardened at his words and she nodded slowly before turning away.  Vengeance was something she understood, he knew; it couldn't hurt to let her think he felt a similar urge.  _Always helps to have a sympathetic employer_.  Of their two employers the Frenchman was clearly the senior, but it was the Viscountess who held the purse-strings and that was where Dietrich's interest lay.  

Moreover, he suspected that trying to play the Frenchman would be a very dangerous game indeed.  He was rather glad that the man had not accompanied their party on this journey, instead pursuing an avenue of investigation he had not seen fit to share with his minions; the Viscountess was easier to deal with, and her motive _much_ simpler to comprehend.  

She wanted Siegfried Schtauffen dead.  And she was prepared to pay - handsomely - for the deed to be done.  As a good mercenary, who was he to turn down such a lucrative offer?

_Shame it worked out this way, really, _he thought to himself.  _Sorry, Siggi old chum, but a job's a job._

He tapped his heels against his steed's flanks and began the descent.

*****

Siegfried swore feelingly as he hauled himself onto the marble floor.  His entire body seemed to be burning, the fires radiating from his left shoulder to consume him.  Against his better judgment he let himself slump to the floor, breathing deep for a few moments to recover some of his strength before forcing himself to rise.

As he rose he could hear the click-_click of Ivy's boots on the marble tiles, their arrhythmic tempo making it clear that she was still heavily favouring her right leg in spite of her determination to conceal the injury.  Even injured she had managed the climb faster than he had, but the strain must be telling now; she was moving markedly more slowly than before.  _

Looking about he saw with some surprise that her lantern was still lit, sitting next to her bag where she had set it down before joining battle with the Guardian.  He moved to join her, watching the shadows about them for any hint of motion as she retrieved her possessions.

He saw none.  "It seems you were right about the Guardian," he observed, "He must still be licking his wounds."

"Mm."  Ivy did not look up from where she was rifling through her bag, withdrawing a silver flask from its interior and setting it on the floor at her side.  "You should retrieve your sword."

She gestured vaguely to her left, tossing him the lightstone as she did so.  Schtauffen glanced in the direction she had indicated but even the lantern's brighter light revealed nothing; moving slowly and cautiously he was almost at the edge of the platform before he espied the zweihander where he had dropped it in his desperate attempt to catch Ivy.  Obviously, he thought as he took it up, she had better eyes than he.  His eyes fell on his discarded bag a few paces away and he scooped it up as well.

Ivy slung her bag and started towards the statue.  Siegfried arranged his load and followed suit, frowning as he watched her limp.  "You're not going to look after your wounds?"

"They will keep." Ivy replied as she neared her destination, "We are running out of time."

Schtauffen opened his mouth to argue – Ivy was clearly having trouble walking – but decided against it.  They _were_ running out of time, and more arguments wouldn't help. As Ivy stooped to reopen the doorway he returned his thoughts to other concerns, raising wary eyes to the ceiling – surely the Guardian would react to a second intrusion as he had the first…

After a moment's silence – in which Schtauffen was sure both he and Ivy fully expected the Pit's mysterious warder to strike – the Englishwoman turned away with a shrug and, sword drawn, entered the passage to the vault.  Siegfried, still watchful, moved after her.

As he entered the passageway Schtauffen noted that the stone here was dry, unstained by water or lichen – evidently the door seal was watertight.  Vercci had no doubt taken pains to make certain that his own resting place would not be subject to the same ravages as the rest of the Pit.

A moment later they entered the heart of the vault and such prosaic thoughts fled his mind.

The interior of the vault was a treasure trove indeed, shelf upon shelf laden with gold and gems lining the walls and rising twice Siegfried's height to the ceiling.  At the centre of the room was a raised dais upon which lay a massive sarcophagus, apparently of gold, its intricately carved sides inlaid with precious stones.  

Neither the opulence nor the extravagance of the tomb was what caught the German's eye, however:  slumped against the sarcophagus was a figure swathed in black cloth.  He needed only a glance to know the man was dead.

"Nothing?"  Ivy's voice, though still a little muted, betrayed no reaction to the corpse's presence.  Schtauffen shook his head.

Anger clouded her face, lips curling in spite of the pain the expression must have caused.  "Keep watch."  She strode into the chamber and stooped to haul the corpse upright, dumping it unceremoniously atop the sarcophagus.  Schtauffen caught a glimpse of the man's face as she did so, before turning to watch the door.

"He's an Easterner?" he asked over his shoulder.

"Japanese."  Ivy muttered, examining the body. "Only recently dead, perhaps a day… but some of these injuries are rather older.  I would say that he has been alive down here for at least a week."

"Eh?"  Schtauffen shifted to watch her out of the corner of his eye.  She had unraveled the cloak in which the body had been wrapped; beneath it he was bare-chested, wearing only loose-fitting dark breeches.  Most of his torso was heavily bandaged, and Ivy was peeling the bandages back to examine the injuries beneath.  "Looks like somebody took the trouble to bind his wounds."

"It seems the Guardian is a fastidious torturer."

"What - you think Voldo was _torturing_ him down here?  Why?"

"Presumably he wished to find out where this man came from and who sent him."

Schtauffen blinked.  "You think he was _interrogating him?  How – I mean, he's _mute_.  Isn't he?"_

"Is he?"  Ivy murmured.  "_We_ have never heard him speak, true, but remember that he was Vercci's most trusted emissary.  Perhaps the common assumption is wrong, as so many are."

"All right…"  Siegfried acknowledged the possibility reluctantly.  "So you think maybe this poor fellow wasn't alone – that his companions took the shard?"  He frowned.  "It's a bit of a reach… he could just be a treasure hunter."

"I doubt it."

With a swift movement Ivy rolled the corpse over and tore the bindings away from its right shoulder.  Under the cloth an intricate tattoo was visible, dramatically dark against the pallid skin.  Ivy sat back, her shoulders slumped wearily.  Siegfried spared a glance at her.

"What's that?"

"It is a clan marking," Ivy replied, her voice resigned.  "He was a ninja of the Fu-Ma clan."

Siegfried said nothing, but he was sure his face momentarily betrayed his surprise at her words.  _A Fu-Ma ninja_?  _Does this have something to do with Taki?_

Ivy glanced at him sharply, as though sensing something in his silence, but after giving him a hard look turned away again to rifle through the man's clothes.  Finding nothing she let him slump back and turned her attention to the rest of the chamber.

"So what exactly does that _mean?" Siegfried asked.  He knew the answer perfectly well, but she might think it odd if he did not enquire.  Fortunately, he thought with some irony, he could hardly go wrong playing on her assumption of his ignorance._

Ivy responded without looking at him as she slowly circled the vault:  "It means that we are too late.  The Fu-Ma are assassins, a secretive clan from Japan with a long tradition of hunting demons."  She frowned faintly.  "It was one of their number who struck down Cervantes - I am surprised that you did not see her."

"The masked woman?  I _did_ see her," Schtauffen corrected her, "but she didn't exactly stop to introduce herself."  _That was true enough, anyway; it had been over two years later that he had learned her name.  He wondered how much Ivy knew about her; possibly the Englishwoman was not aware that Taki was now a renegade, hunted by her own clan._

Ivy nodded absently, pausing in her examination to study several rather plain items on one of the shelves – the prisoner's belongings, Schtauffen supposed.  "Mm.  Well, at some point we will need to… seek her out.  She has something we - ah."  She had unfurled a battered leather satchel from among the other items, drawing forth a travel-stained parchment.  Schtauffen drew alongside her as she studied it silently, but although the script was vaguely familiar from his travels he could make no sense of it.  

"You can read that?"

"Yes," Ivy said distractedly.  She furled the parchment and slipped it into her bag before turning her attention to him.  "Not all of the world's wisdom can be found in the libraries of Europe, Herr Schtauffen.  My studies required a… broader perspective."

A part of Siegfried couldn't help but smile inwardly; injured or not, Ivy could not resist taking an opportunity to flaunt her superior knowledge.  "So… if these Fu-Ma _are_ demon hunters I suppose you were right - he was definitely here for the shard."

"Yes."

"We can't be sure he wasn't alone, or if he had companions that they took the shard, though."

"That is true," Ivy admitted reluctantly, "but I still think it a likely explanation.  In any case the shard is gone, and there is little else here for us."  She paused, looking around appraisingly.  "Give me your bag."

A little startled by the apparent change of tack Siegfried took a moment to comply.  Taking the bag Ivy started to fill it, sweeping gold and gems from the shelves with one arm.  Schtauffen stared as she went about the business of looting Vercci's tomb with methodical efficiency.

"What are you _doing?" he managed eventually._

"If you keep watching I imagine you will eventually work it out," Ivy replied with deceptive mildness.

"Are we to add grave robbery to our list of crimes now?"

Ivy stopped at that, though she did not turn to face him.  "Yes."  Her voice was clipped, laced with irritation and coated with ice.  "Or do you think taking the shard would not have qualified as such?"

"That's different, and you _know it." Schtauffen snapped.  "The shard is one thing, but this… I mean… have you no _pride_?"_

Now Ivy did turn to him, the motion slow and deliberate. Even with his limited knowledge of her moods Schtauffen knew this was much worse than outright fury, but he wasn't going to back down now.  Her hateful glare struck him with almost physical force; even across the room he could see she was trembling with tautly-constrained rage.

"_If you are asking," she said after a long silence, her voice crackling with fury, "whether I value my pride more highly than my mission, then the answer is no.  Our undertaking will be both lengthy and costly.  We will need this wealth, and more, before our work is done - and I do not care __whence it comes.  _

"If you are asking something _else," her voice dropped to a guttural snarl, "then you can go to the_ devil_."_

She punctuated her retort by slinging the full bag at him with all her strength.  Schtauffen caught it with both hands, the impact rocking him back on his heels.  Regaining his equilibrium he hurled it to the floor, its golden contents spraying across the tiles.

"I've no doubt that he awaits us _both, Ivy," he snarled, "but why in God's name are you so bloody eager to damn us still further?"_

"_Further!"  Ivy scoffed, her anger and contempt evidently overriding any consideration for the pain of her burned face.  "You are a __fool, Schtauffen.  We _cannot_ be damned further."_

He did not reply, and she went back to her looting.  Schtauffen watched her silently, folding his arms across his chest as she went about her task.  Soon, her own bag filled, Ivy stood carefully and turned to the door.  As she passed him he spoke quietly:  "Is that really what you believe?"

Ivy paused for a moment, not turning to meet his questioning gaze.  When she spoke her voice was low and weary.

"Just… pick up the bag."

Without another word she passed out of the room.  As her uneven steps faded Schtauffen took a deep breath, steadying himself.  He remained there, motionless, for some time before dropping to his knees and scraping the nearest of the scattered wealth back into the bag.  

When he emerged from the passage a few minutes later she was waiting, leaning heavily against the marble base of Vercci's statue.  Neither spoke as they fell into step, leaving the great hall without a backward glance.  

As they neared the stairs Ivy pulled a battered gourd from her bag and took a long swig of its contents.  As she started to refasten its seal she paused, and with a faint sigh offered the gourd to Schtauffen.  He accepted it silently, relishing the cool, fresh water as he drank deep before passing it back with a nod.

The wordless exchange was a truce of sorts, he supposed; perhaps even an apology, though he could not have said which of them was offering it.  _Perhaps both of us.  Whatever the case he felt the tension between them ease, and a part of his attention turned to other concerns._

He was keenly aware that their deadline was almost upon them, but he said nothing; Ivy was as aware of it as he was, no doubt.  He supposed that with the traps disabled and identified the ascent should proceed much more swiftly – and after all, the flooding would likely take hours.  He could feel his spirits lifting; merely the act of _ascending rather than descending was a tremendous relief.   _

_No reason to let your guard down, though, he reminded himself sternly.  He reached the 'chessboard' a few paces behind Ivy and remembering her previous admonishment started across the platform keeping carefully to the white tiles._

Siegfried was almost halfway across when his skin prickled and without knowing exactly _why he whirled, his sword ringing as he drew it.  For a moment he thought his imagination was playing tricks on him; then steel leapt from the darkness to be met by his sword, sparks flaring as the blades screamed against one another for a moment before he was able to shift his stance and push the Guardian back.  Voldo somersaulted away to land in a wide crouching stance, hissing behind his elaborate helm of jet and gold.  A part of Siegfried's mind noted that the Guardian had changed his attire to a close-fitting garment of black and deep red - perhaps because the other was damaged, he mused absently._

Hearing and feeling Ivy's sword being drawn behind him Schtauffen shifted his stance a little, risking a quick glance at his companion.  She was edging across the platform, limping visibly; she evidently no longer had the strength to conceal her injured leg.

Voldo skittered sideways towards her.  Siegfried grimaced; the Guardian already seemed to have decided that she was now the weaker of the two of his opponents.  He started to move towards her, remembering only just in time to keep to the white tiles.  A quick look at Voldo confirmed that his rapid movements were equally deliberate; though moving swiftly and apparently erratically, the Guardian was meticulously avoiding the black flagstones.  

_He's not seriously going to fight us **here, _surely_, Schtauffen thought – more in hope than in expectation – **__He'd have to be-_

His thoughts were interrupted as Voldo dashed forward, his first strike stabbing low under Ivy's guard. She jerked her foot back by reflex, the katar glancing off her armour-sheathed boot and the floor, but as she did so her full weight shifted onto her wounded leg and it folded beneath her.

As she fell Schtauffen sprang forward with a shout, Voldo abandoning his follow-through against Ivy as he turned to meet him.  Catching the German's sword-thrust in the V of one of his katars he twisted the blade, almost wrenching it from Siegfried's hands and sending the swordsman staggering sideways.  He felt the floor shift beneath his foot and realized with a sudden clarity that he had stumbled on to one of the black tiles.

He hurled himself sideways with all of his strength as pain lanced through his calf, landing heavily on the next broad flagstone and rolling into a crouch.  The black tile had sprouted a dozen iron spines, one newly stained with his blood.

He had no time to examine his wound; the Guardian was upon him.  Schtauffen rose to his feet, sweeping the zweihander in a rising cross-cut to keep Voldo at bay for a moment.  A part of his mind noted with relief that he had no trouble standing, though his leg burned with fresh pain.

Voldo reared back, the movement all the more serpentine in the accompaniment of the sibilant hiss of his breath.  Schtauffen took the momentary respite to settle into the Queen's Stance, sword hanging behind his back.  He shifted his stance slightly until he could see Ivy, struggling to rise.  Voldo seemed reminded of her difficulty at the same time, circling away from the German towards her.  Schtauffen's experienced eye told him that the Guardian's movements were a little slower, a little less steady than they had been in their last confrontation; his wounds were telling, but he was still much more mobile than Ivy.

Cursing to himself Schtauffen skirted around the spikes and made a dash to head the Guardian off before he could reach his intended prey.  Once again Voldo turned to meet his rush, his katars catching the zweihander once more; this time, however, Siegfried was ready for him.  The young swordsman pressed close, into the shorter reach of the Guardian's deadly katars, but for the moment those blades were tangled with his sword and Voldo was briefly left wide open.  Schtauffen slammed a shoulder into him with all his weight and momentum behind it, knocking the Guardian backwards onto the black flagstone behind him.

At least, that was his _plan.  Voldo somehow wrenched himself about in mid-air and landed splayed in a low crouch over the black marble flagstone; it took Schtauffen a moment to realize that the Guardian's feet and knife points were resting safely on the white tiles surrounding him.  In that moment of confusion Voldo resumed the offensive with a flurry of katar strokes that drove Schtauffen backwards to teeter on the edge of the neighbouring flagstone.  The German made a wild leap backwards to avoid the trap, but by the time he regained his balance Voldo was gone.  It took Schtauffen a moment to locate the Guardian, once more closing in on Ivy._

Siegfried started to run, shouting a warning, but he was too far, _too far_.  Ivy had still not risen, leaning heavily on one knee and almost helpless before the Guardian's approach.  

Voldo paused before her, his rasping breath hollow behind his metal mask as he swayed back flourishing his blades, as though performing for an audience.  Ivy started to stand, unsteady and shaking, as the Guardian bowed gracefully and hurled himself to the attack.

Almost too swiftly to follow Ivy's blade lashed out to spear Voldo in mid-leap, ripping him out of the air to crash to the floor at her feet.  Suddenly standing tall and straight the Englishwoman stamped a booted foot onto the Guardian's back, grinding him into the stone.  Feral glee lit her bloody features as she raised her sword point-downward in both hands, ready for the deathblow.

Yet again Voldo eluded the decisive stroke, convulsing under her foot and throwing her aim off just enough for the tremendous blow to strike splinters from the stone on which he lay.  The Guardian's body seemed to ripple as he sprang to his feet, raising his blades in defense as Ivy straightened, her sword scything upwards in a vicious arc.  

Their weapons clashed violently, Voldo staggering under the impact; Ivy seized the moment to stamp her boot down once more, this time atop her opponent's leading foot.  Schtauffen heard bones _crack under the impact and winced in involuntary sympathy as he shook off his surprise and cautiously maneuvered closer._

He could see that the Guardian's fight was slowing, the tall man faltering visibly; blood flowed freely from the deep stab in his stomach and his right foot was all but crippled.  Ivy, by contrast, almost seemed to be getting stronger as she gained the upper hand, raining sword-blows and kicks upon his weakening defense and forcing Voldo backwards.

The Italian tried to break away, vaulting backwards over one of the black flagstones to gain a brief respite; he landed quite gracefully on one foot, but no sooner had he done so than Ivy drove her blade into the ground, the tip erupting from the floor beneath Voldo ten feet away.  Her aim was not perfect; the serrated edge of her blade tore upwards along the Guardian's chest, the wound painful but shallow.  Voldo reeled, his breath now coming in halting gasps, and before he could recover Schtauffen was upon him.  

Siegfried lunged in from the side, his sword slashing at waist height; Voldo barely caught the blow on the flat of one katar but the impact shattered the triple blades in a shower of sparks and steel splinters.  As Siegfried brought his sword up again the Guardian drew his ornately helmeted head back and then slammed it against the young German's skull, the helmet ringing like a gong.  Siegfried fell back dazed, barely aware of the Guardian hissing one final defiant challenge before turning and springing over the edge of the platform a moment ahead of Ivy's sword-lash.

Siegfried blinked, shaking his head to clear it as Ivy drew alongside him.  For a long moment the two remained motionless, staring down into the darkness as though expecting their foe to emerge for another round.  Schtauffen, for one, would hardly have been surprised if he had done just that.

After perhaps a minute he found his voice.  "Damn." he murmured, "You think that's it?"

Ivy made a noise somewhere between a sigh and a soft laugh.  "I sincerely hope so."  Schtauffen glanced at her with a rueful grin.

"Yeah." He chuckled, relief lending the moment a dark humour that eased his spirit.  As they straightened he glanced down at her leg.  "You seem to have healed rather miraculously."

"Indeed."  Ivy met his gaze evenly.  Schtauffen nodded slowly.

"You thought he might be listening."

"There was no way to be certain that he was not."

"So you staged a deception." he finished.  "You knew he would try to eliminate the weaker of us first and lulled him with the promise of easy prey." His mouth quirked.   "Without bothering to let me in on the plan, of course."

"Precisely."  There was a gleam in her eyes that challenged him to call her on the issue.  Schtauffen merely nodded as she smiled wickedly.  "You were convincingly chivalrous, Herr Schtauffen.  I have no doubt that your foolish eagerness to protect me helped to convince Voldo that my incapacity was genuine."

"Foolish?"  The knowledge that she had not told him her plan didn't really bother him – perhaps he was becoming accustomed to it - but _this_ was too much.  "I didn't _know you were feigning it, Ivy.  As far as I knew you couldn't properly defend yourself."_

"Whether I could defend myself or not is not the issue.  The Guardian was injured.  You would have had a better chance of finishing him off if you had not tried to play at being the hero."

"I wasn't _playing_ at anything!  I thought… I really thought you needed protecting."

Ivy cocked her head at him, brows raised.  "Again, you miss the point.  It was more important to defeat the Guardian than to protect me.  Need I remind you that our greater mission is more important than either of our lives?"

"Need I remind _you_," Siegfried growled, "that without you that 'greater mission' is _over? As you are so fond of reminding me, _you're_ the one who knows what's going on.  Even __had I defeated Voldo I would have had little idea how or where to seek the remaining fragments, and even less idea about exactly what to do with them should I somehow manage to obtain them."_

He took a deep breath, steadying his temper before continuing.  "It's all very well for you to boldly claim expendability, Ivy, but it's _not true.  Try and remember that before you berate me for trying to do no more than keep you alive."_

Ivy opened her mouth to retort but did not speak, her face suddenly thoughtful. Siegfried did not wait for her: he turned angrily away and strode to the edge of the platform where he waited silently for her to resume the climb.  

He heard her approach, pausing as she neared him; for a moment he thought she was going to address him but after a long and weighty silence she passed without a word, starting across the next walkway. 

They continued the ascent in silence.  

Perhaps five minutes had passed when a deep, rumbling tremor seemed to run through the very stone of the walls and floor.  Siegfried instinctively put a hand to the wall of the narrow stairway to steady himself, feeling the rock almost buzzing under his fingers.  He raised nervous eyes to the ceiling, wondering if it were about to come down on their heads, but after a few seconds the rumbling faded to nothing.

He lowered his gaze, directing a questioning look to Ivy, but the horrified expression on her face silenced him more effectively than anything she might have said.

"No…"  She breathed, her dark eyes wide, "No, _no-"_

Then she was off, dashing up the stairway heedless of any need for caution, and because Schtauffen could scarcely conceive what could have inspired such hideous fear in his implacable companion, he was close on her heels.

To the top of the stairs she ran, then across another hanging platform and over the narrow walkway beyond, through a twisting corridor and up a spiral stair.  At the top of that stairway she halted so abruptly that Schtauffen piled into her, almost knocking her down.

Opening his mouth to ask why she had stopped – and indeed why she had run in the first place – he saw the answer for himself and froze, his face taking on a horrified expression to match her own.

A few yards ahead of them the stairs ended in a wall of featureless stone.

"What…" was all he could say for a long moment.  Ivy did not answer, turning with a sigh to shoulder past him.

He caught at her shoulder as she passed.  "Ivy, what… what the hell happened?"

"Is it not obvious?"  she replied.  "Poseidon's Gate has been sprung.  The lower levels have sealed."  She turned to look at the stone barrier.  "We are trapped."

"How is that possible?"  Schtauffen was aware that his voice was rising, but under the circumstances did not care.  "I thought the Gate was broken!"

"It _is broken, in that the floodgates cannot be closed." She gestured at the stone wall.  "Obviously, the mechanisms for sealing intruders in are still quite functional."_

"I don't recall you ever mentioning _that_ before." he growled accusingly.

"I did not know one way or another.  I did not learn _everything before coming here – only everything I _could_."_

"So what set it off?  Did we-"

"You certainly possess a rare ability to overlook the obvious, Schtauffen.  The Guardian can no longer best us in battle, so he uses the Pit itself against us."

He stared at her, mind reeling, too shocked to take offense.  _What does it take to **stop that man? "Well… what can we do? Is there any way round this?"**_

"It would be a rather poor trap if there were.  This stairway is a choke point, one of several.  There is no alternative route – that is the _point_."

"So we're just going to wait to drown?  You can't tell me that you have no other options, Ivy – if there is _one_ thing I know about you it's that you plan ahead.  Surely you have _some idea?"_

Ivy closed her eyes, leaning wearily against the stone wall.  Schtauffen watched her for a few moments before snapping his fingers.

"What about the vault - it was dry, remember?  We could hole up in there till the tide goes out."

"Perhaps - I assume that is what the Guardian does." Ivy murmured, opening her eyes.  "But if the seals have worked as intended we will not be able to get there."

Siegfried snorted.  "That's no reason not to _try."_

"I suppose you have the right of it."  Ivy agreed reluctantly, pushing herself off the wall.  "Let us hurry, then."

They began to descend again with alacrity.  It took them only a few minutes to confirm Ivy's grim prediction:  featureless stone blocked their descent as it had their escape.

Ivy gave Siegfried a look which so clearly said _I told you so_ that he was momentarily unsure that she hadn't actually voiced the words.  He retorted with an angry look of his own.  "We had to try.  I didn't hear _you offering any better suggestions."  Frustrated, he pounded on the wall with one closed fist before leaning his head against it with a sigh.  "Now would be an excellent time to do so, by the way."_

The Englishwoman took a few moments to reply.  "Yours would have been the safest option, even if the Guardian was waiting in the Vault," she began "but… there is another possibility."

"Which _is?" Siegfried prompted after the silence stretched too long for his patience._

Ivy looked at him.  In spite of the grim reality of their situation there was the faint hint of a smile on her lips.

"You won't like it." 

*****

"I don't like it.  It's been too long, I tell ye.  Something's gone wrong."

Marc Rousseau sighed, straightening from his stocktaking of the _Bravura's_ fresh water barrels and turning to face the man behind him.

"I have heard you the first time you said so, my friend." he said patiently.  _And the second_.  _And the third, fourth, fifth_…  "But still I do not know what it is that you expect me to do.  Madame Valentine's orders were precise:  she expects us to await her signal."  

His argument made for the third time, the first mate tried to return to his duties – which, he had to admit, looked far better when the alternative was having his ear bent by an increasingly edgy Scotsman.  Mackay was almost bouncing on the spot; he reminded Rousseau of a little boy who desperately needed to relieve himself.

"Aye, I know that," he replied, "but trust me – there's a time factor here.  If they're not outta the pit soon they ain't gettin' out.  We have ta help them!"

The Frenchman pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyes closed.  "What assistance do you think we might be?  You have said yourself that you do not know even how to enter the place."  He let his hand drop as he looked back at Mackay, "And in any case, I think you are worrying too much.  I think that those two can take care of themselves."

Mackay ran a hand through his fair hair.  "Aye… I know _that, too… but I've got a really bad feelin' in me gut.  I'm tellin' ye, something's wrong."_

"If that is all then I do not think that it is sufficient.  We cannot be running around simply because you have a stomach upset."

"I've never asked ye to do anything before have I? Just this once, Marc."

"You have known me for perhaps a week," Rousseau countered, "so it is not such a wonder that you have asked me for nothing before."  He raised a placating hand as Mackay's hackles started to rise.  "Alastair, please - I do not wish to give offense.  You know what Madame Valentine's instructions were as well as I do.  She did not wish to be interrupted while she was on the island."

"I _know_," Mackay admitted, playing his trump card.  "but remember how well ye're bein' _paid_, Marc.  Somethin' happens to her ladyship, well, that's the end of the best-payin' job you'll see for a while.  What would yer Captain say?"

Rousseau scowled at him.  The money was excellent, true, but it was the last point that convinced him.  He knew what Batistelli would say – he had already said it in Corsica, after all.  The old man felt a strange sense of duty to his peculiar passengers. 

He nodded wearily, raising his hands in surrender.  "All right, _all _right_.  I will inform the captain."  He turned and trudged towards the quarterdeck.  "Be ready in five minutes.  And when your mistress chooses to kill someone for disobeying her orders, I will be expecting you to volunteer."_

The Scotsman just grinned at him.

*****

"How much longer are we going to wait here?"

Siegfried wheeled on Ivy as he asked the question.  The Englishwoman was kneeling on the floor, carefully mixing the contents of several flasks in a small silver bowl – some kind of healing preparation, she had said.

He rather envied her.  By the time their course of action had been decided her familiar stoic mask had slipped back into place and she had gone coolly about her business while he was fretful with the inactivity.  She had cleaned and bandaged his wounds with brisk, callous efficiency and had accepted his assistance in doing the same for her leg wound.

She had refused assistance in dealing with her torn face, however, instead beginning the preparations she was now apparently near completing.  Siegfried, meanwhile, had had nothing to do but wait and fret.

"Not much longer, I would think."  She replied eventually, sitting back   "Check the water's height again."

Schtauffen didn't argue, though her peremptory tone irritated him; it was something to do, after all.  Crossing the platform he descended the spiral stairs at its end until the rising waters came into view – sooner than he had expected, in fact.  The water was rising faster than he had expected, its progress quite visible.  At the rate it was rising it would be upon them in less than ten minutes.  Schtauffen nodded to himself, relieved at the prospect, and started back up the stairs.

As he reached the platform where he had left Ivy a furious hissing jolted him out of his musings and he whirled, expecting to see the Guardian springing out of the shadows.  After a moment searching the surrounding darkness without success he realized the sound was coming from the centre of the platform – from _Ivy._

_What in god's name…?_  Her right hand was pressed to her wounded face, brilliant light gleaming between her fingers and – was he _hallucinating? – __smoke rising from the wound.  The odour of burning flesh assaulted his senses as he drew nearer to her, halted in his tracks by her upraised hand._

This close he could see her entire body was shuddering, her back slowly arching and the fingers of her outflung hand curving into shivering claws.  Her teeth were bared in a cruel rictus, tears streaming from under the lids of her closed eyes.

"Ivy!" he shouted at her, alarmed.  "**_Ivy_**! What is it? What-" As he reached for her she suddenly took a huge, heaving breath and slumped forwards onto her elbows, the breath rattling in her throat.  He dropped to his knees before her, taking a deep breath himself.  "What the hell was that?"

It took her a long time to answer; her breathing gradually steadied, the trembling of her frame subsiding.  After a minute she raised herself to her hands, shaking her head groggily.

He repeated the question, a little irritably but very aware of the charred-flesh odour that pervaded the air.  Ivy straightened, her head lolling back as she breathed deep and evenly.  

His breath caught in his throat; the wound he had given her was gone, but the flesh of the cheek was blackened and blistered as though burned.  Smoke was still wafting from the charred, cracked skin as her eyes opened, hazy and unfocused.

"Ivy?" Schtauffen asked again, shaking her by one shoulder.

She turned eyes bright with unshed tears towards him, her gaze visibly focusing as she blinked.  Her brows contracted into a frown as she registered his hand shaking her.

"_What_?" she snapped.

"What do you mean, _what_?" he retorted.  "What the hell just happened to you?"

Ivy groaned, the heel of one hand pressed to her forehead as the other brushed Schtauffen's hand aside.  For a moment they sat in silence; when Ivy spoke her eyes were closed once more.  "I _told_ you.  I was treating my wound."  Her voice had a dry, rasping quality now that gave it a harsh edge.

"What with, a torch?  My _god_…"

Ivy attempted a wry smile – or so he supposed; what she produced was a rather ghastly parody, the charred skin cracking in places.  "Alchemy has many applications, Schtauffen…" she winced, "even healing.  It is admittedly better suited to mending steel than flesh… but it serves."

"If you say so," Schtauffen replied dubiously, "but the cure doesn't look much better than the injury from here."

"The immediate effect is… unpleasant," she agreed, "but in the long term… it is very effective."

Siegfried shook his head disbelievingly.  "You're out of your _mind."_

Ivy shrugged weakly, shifting to a sitting position.  "Believe what you will," she muttered.  "How long have we left?"

"Ten or fifteen minutes."

She nodded, breathing deep.  "Good… when the water reaches about a foot above this platform we will make our attempt.  I hope you are as good a swimmer as you claim."

"You should worry about yourself, Ivy," Schtauffen looked at her keenly; _this_ weakness he was certain she wasn't feigning.  Moving slightly he shifted so they were sitting back to back; after a moment she accepted the unspoken offer, reluctantly leaning into the mutual support. 

"I will be ready." she replied.

Her words brought the memory of a similar comment to the forefront of Siegfried's thoughts. 

"_I_ was not ready," he said slowly, trying to keep bitterness from his tone, "and you didn't warn me."

He felt her tense a little, her back shifting against his.  "You should have realized it for yourself.  Even if I _had told you, you would not have believed me."_

Schtauffen forced himself to refrain from an indignant retort, tempting though it was; if he were honest with himself, he knew, her words were true.

Not that _that_ entirely excused her behaviour.

"Maybe…" he acknowledged slowly, "but you still should have tried."

After a moment he felt her shrug, but she did not reply.  

They did not speak further; they sat in strangely comfortable silence until cold water brushed against them, spreading across the floor.

Ivy was the first on her feet, much of her strength evidently recovered.  She tossed Siegfried a lightstone as he stood.  "These two are our last, so be careful."

Schtauffen smiled to himself.  If they were still in the Pit when the stones burned out in twenty minutes, darkness would be the least of their problems.  He unfastened the ties of his hauberk, shrugging the heavy mail coat off with some relief.  

"Remember, the sluice gate is two yards below our current level," Ivy pointed, "over there.  The shaft leads to a storage cistern from the top of which another shaft leads to the sea, or rather an underwater cave which opens onto the sea.  The total distance is perhaps a shade over two hundred yards."

It didn't _sound_ so far, Schtauffen mused, though he knew the reality was rather harsher.  Two hundred yards under water, even under the best of conditions, would be an achievement; trying to navigate an unknown route with only the faint illumination of the light stones was another thing entirely.  "Are you certain there are no obstructions - grates or anything?"

"I am certain of no such thing.  I _do_ know that the gates themselves are designed to close when the Pit is filled, but that mechanism is obviously not working; the gates are jammed open.  Whether or not they are open sufficiently to permit escape remains to be seen, but there is only one way to put _that question to the test."_

"Right," muttered Siegfried, "of course."  Stooping, he pulled off his boots; the water was bitingly cold on his feet but he barely noticed it, focusing on the task ahead.  He checked the fastenings of his sword-sheath one last time; the zweihander would be about all he brought out of this hell-hole.

He spared a glance at the gold-filled bags now discarded on the floor.  _After all that, he thought wryly, __we have to leave the gold behind.  The irony, he had to admit, was rather acute._

"Are you ready?"  Ivy's voice cut across his thoughts.  Schtauffen nodded as he turned to her.

"As I'll ever be."

*****

Mackay leaned over the side of the longboat, eyes scanning the low wall of rock some twenty yards to its west. 

"You're sure that's where you left them?" he asked Rousseau.  The first mate looked to Gaiardi, who nodded.

"No question."

"How did they get ashore?"  Mackay had enough experience as a sailor to know the crew wouldn't likely have chanced getting close to those rocks, even on such a calm day.

"It seems there is a small beach when the tide is out," Rousseau explained.  He turned to Gaiardi.  "We shall have to find somewhere else.  Bring us about to the east - there may be somewhere there we can put ashore."

Gaiardi nodded, barking orders to the oarsmen.  As the longboat began to make headway Rousseau turned to look at Mackay, who was still staring at the shoreline with fierce concentration.

"Where is the entrance?"

"Eh?"  Mackay started at the question, taking a moment to orient himself before answering.  "Uh, I'm not sure exactly."

"You are not _sure_?" the Frenchman repeated, disbelievingly.  "You are not sure.  You bring us rushing out here - and you are not sure."

"Aye, well…" Mackay defended himself, "We'll just have to look, right?  Don't get all tied up in knots about it."

"It is _you_ who are tying knots in me," Rousseau muttered.  "It will take us _hours_ to search that island!"

"No... well… aye, maybe…" Mackay admitted.  "So the sooner we start the better, eh?"

Rousseau restrained an increasingly familiar urge to pitch the younger man overboard and settled for turning his back on him, muttering to himself.

Ten minutes later the longboat scraped ashore on the east coast of the islet, Mackay wading ashore as the rest of the crew hauled the boat on to the beach.  Rousseau joined him moments later, fiddling with his sword-belt.

"So then…" the Frenchman said, eyeing the sparsely wooded slopes ahead of them, "have you _any_ idea where the entrance is?"

"Pretty much in the middle," Mackay replied firmly.  _Good a place as any to start_, he thought.

Rousseau grimaced.  "Very well."  He turned to the other crewmen, clumped about the longboat.  "Ruggieri, you and Iacopo cut across to the south.  Taddeo…" he frowned, looking about, "Where is he… Hey! Taddeo! Come over here!"

The sailor in question was standing a little way off to the north, gazing out to sea.  At the sound of his name he raised a hand, but did not turn.

Frowning, Rousseau made his way to the older man's side.  "What is it?"

In answer Taddeo thrust his chin in the direction he was squinting.  It took Rousseau a moment to work out where he was looking, and several more to realize exactly what he was looking _at_.

A moment later he was sprinting back towards the longboat, eyes straining to keep sight of the two small figures bobbing in the water as he shouted wildly for the others to join him.

*****

It was a clear night, moon and stars bright both in the vault of the sky and the depths of the ocean as _Bravura made her way north later that evening._

Siegfried leaned on the quarterdeck railing, watching the islet as it receded towards the horizon and sorting through the thoughts and feelings that their excursion had aroused.  

He had really felt as though he was turning a corner in his life with this new quest, but things had gone so terribly _wrong.  They had barely escaped with their lives, and it was in no small part his fault.  Now he wondered if this new hope might not go the way of everything else, turning to ashes in his hands almost before he had begun.  _

_Careful_, he berated himself.  _Think that way and you will bring what your fear to pass, Schtauffen.  He knew it was true, but it was more easily said than done; after years of despair, hope – even so dark a hope as Ivy had offered him – did not come easily._

It had been a bad start, true, but he was still alive, and now that he understood his present weakness he could work to correct it.  There was no doubt that it would not be easy – but he knew well that anything worthwhile was worth struggling for.  

It had been one of his father's favourite maxims; for a time, both as Siegfried Schtauffen and as Nightmare, he had forgotten it - but he remembered it now.  The thought bolstered his spirits and he squared his shoulders unconsciously.  _You chose this course, he reminded himself.  _You may have doubts,_ _but all you can do is hold to it. _ _

"Hold to your course, boy," he said softly.  Another of his father's sayings, he remembered with a faint smile.

"Talking to yourself, Herr Schtauffen?"

Siegfried started at the sound of her voice; lost in his thoughts he had not heard her approach.  He wheeled to face her as she continued.

"I have given some thought to what you said earlier."

"You... oh?" he stuttered; his mind noted with exasperation that once again he had managed to deliver a response remarkable solely for its doltishness.  He always seemed to be on the back foot when dealing with her.

_That, he thought glumly, was a fair approximation of their whole relationship.  Ivy had a knack for keeping him off balance, always on the defensive.  She had all the advantages – the knowledge, the intelligence, and now even the strength - and she __knew it; it was a part of the seemingly inviolable self-confidence that seemed to define her.  Even though he knew that assuredness was not complete – she had admitted as much to him when they had met on Corsica – it was difficult to challenge._

_Particularly as she's usually right, he thought gloomily.  _

"I have come to the conclusion that you were correct."

"I - I… was?" 

Ivy gave him a curious look; hardly surprising, he thought, since he was even less coherent than she was accustomed to.  The look lasted only a moment before she replied.  

"Yes."

She did not immediately explain further and Schtauffen eventually felt obliged to press the point.  "About what?"

He did not miss the glitter in her eyes as he asked; she had wanted and expected him to do so, to approach her as a supplicant.  It was perhaps something she needed after making the concession that he had been right, he supposed, but the thought did not make it any more palatable.

"Our venture will likely be more successful if you understand it better." Ivy replied; her voice, he noticed, was less rough than it had been earlier, and her face – though still visibly burned – already seemed less badly damaged.  "To learn everything would take years, even if you _were capable of it – but there are thing that you __can learn that may prove useful._

"Also," she added, a little more slowly, "I was… _perhaps_… remiss in not telling you of your weakness, and in not attempting to compensate for it.  You will be nothing but a burden if you do not regain your former ability.  I have need of assistance, not baggage."

Schtauffen almost had to smile at the balance of apology and abuse, which he suspected Ivy had achieved without even trying.  Even so, she looked as though the concessions had left an unpleasant aftertaste.

He couldn't help but rub it in.  "Are you offering to _help me, Ivy?"_

"Not for _your benefit, but for mine, yes.  I will teach you what I can, and I will help you to train - but I warn you, it will not be easy."_

"Please."  Schtauffen replied rather haughtily. "I've heard _that_ before.  I am quite familiar with harsh taskmasters.  When I was in the fighting school we had a saying:  _Was sehrt, das lehrt."_

"What hurts, teaches?" Ivy's irritated expression transformed into a broad, amused smile that the German found quite unsettling.  "I like _that."  She laughed warmly as she turned away, "Yes, indeed, I __do like that, Herr Schtauffen.  I think that after all I will have __much to teach you."_

Still chuckling she strolled away down the deck, leaving him to wonder just what he had gotten himself into _now._

***************

Author's Notes: …Yes.  Well.  OK.  _That was a little more than a week, I grant you…_

No, not dead – just slow, so… slow…

If I have any readers left I apologize for the rather lengthy delay in posting this, particularly after my optimistic predictions.  It's been a creative brawl.

I'm not going to risk predicting when I'll update next, only that I _will_.  Odds are it'll be in the New Year, though you never know… 

Reviewers, again, you are wonderful; your kindness helps me through the hardest parts.

In the (likely) event that I do not post before the day, Merry Christmas to all of you who celebrate it.  If you don't, well, Merry December 25th.  

And all the best of everything to you in the New Year.


	7. Sparring

**_SINS OF THE DAUGHTER, SINS OF THE SON_**

Chapter 7:  _Sparring_

By Kurt1K

Siegfried had studied under many trainers in his short life.  The harshest by far had been Gunther Bauer, who had terrorized entire classes of young nobles at the Magdeburg fighting school where Schtauffen had studied in his father's absence; the veteran trainer had had an eagerness to demonstrate his superiority, wounding and marking his students as a method of driving home his lessons.

As his feet were yanked out from under him for the tenth time in as many minutes Siegfried took a moment to speculate that Isabella Valentine would have had Gunther Bauer blubbering like a baby in five minutes flat.  The Englishwoman seemed to wholeheartedly believe that the best way for him to regain his strength was through repeated battering and humiliation, and was taking conspicuous pleasure in delivering just that.

After almost two hours he had at least to admit that the desire for the revenge - the very real thirst to visit some of the pain upon her – made for _excellent_ motivation.

Schtauffen hit the deck hard, breath exploding from his lungs and brilliant light flaring through his skull as his head bounced off the hard wood.  For a moment he was aware only of the ringing in his head and the salt taste of blood in his mouth, the rest of the world a vague haze of light and muted sound.

One by one his other senses returned, the world fading into being in fits and starts: the warmth of the Mediterranean sun, the tang of salt water in the air and the faint cries of gulls far overhead; the creak of the schooner's rigging, the smooth plane of her deck beneath him and the slap of water against her hull all startlingly clear.  And clearer than them all, the _click_, _click_ of booted footsteps as the devil herself paced lazily around him.

He remained still a moment longer, taking the opportunity to regain every iota of strength he could wring from the moment.  It was a moment too long.

The footsteps swung in close and a pointed boot flipped him roughly onto his back.

"Up."

The German gritted his teeth as he complied, determined not to give the woman the satisfaction of knowing she was getting to him.  Or - at least - the satisfaction of _seeing_ that she was getting to him.

One of the crewmen who had gathered to watch the spectacle handed him his weapon with a grin at least as amused as it was sympathetic.  Schtauffen gave him an irritated scowl - which only seemed to amuse him all the more - and turned back to Ivy, hefting the heavy stave in both hands.

She was waiting for him in that infuriatingly nonchalant ready stance, whips coiled in both hands.  As Schtauffen turned to her she smiled scornfully.

"Try a _little_ harder, if you please, Herr Schtauffen," she drawled, "I doubt that you will win many battles lying on your face."

Siegfried's lip curled at the barb, but with enormous effort he allowed no other sign of his simmering anger to manifest.  Hotheadedness had always been something against which he struggled; rushing in after her last insult had gotten him nowhere but laid out on his face.  A simple mistake, a beginner's mistake, and one that Gunther Bauer would never have let him forget.  

He had little hope that Isabella Valentine would be any more forgiving.

As they squared off she let the whips uncoil, pooling at her feet.  He had been rather relieved when she had emerged from her quarters with the weapons; he had not been entirely certain that she wasn't planning on sparring with him using the Ivy Blade.

Now he was beginning to wonder if that might not have been more merciful.  The heavy leather lashes might not have all of her enchanted sword's capabilities, but as Siegfried had found to his expense Ivy certainly knew how to use them.  He could only imagine what new humiliation she was planning as she waited for him.

He shifted his weapon into a ready stance, blowing a few stray strands of damp hair off his face and squaring his shoulders as he set his feet.  

Ivy watched his preparations with an air of strained patience, rolling her head idly before she spoke: "Are you trying to _bore_ me to death, Schtauffen?  Come, now, whenever you feel ready."  

Siegfried growled and lunged at her, but while his anger was unfeigned he did not charge heedlessly; this time as the first whip slashed out he ducked low, catching it with his upraised stave.  Before Ivy could loosen the coils or bring her second weapon into play he wrenched the staff back, yanking her off-balance, and drove a booted foot into her midsection.  The woman folded over at the impact, but even as he stepped closer to press his advantage she whipped upright, snapping a knee high into his face.  As he staggered she freed her lash, dropping its coils about his throat as she shoved him to his knees and planting one boot on his back as the leathern noose drew tight.  Siegfried's fingers fumbled at the coils but he could feel the strength leaving his limbs as shadows clouded his sight.  

Suddenly the coiled leather loosened, uncoiling as his captor released her strangling grip.  Schtauffen took a tremendous rasping breath before collapsing onto his elbows, gasping.  

"Stay down if you wish, Schtauffen," Ivy's tone was amused, dismissive: "I had hoped for better, but perhaps you have had enough… we can conclude this session if that is all you have to offer."

Schtauffen growled.  With teeth gritted he forced himself to stand again, hands closing about his fallen weapon as he rose.  His anger was boiling now, taking all of his will to contain.

Ivy watched him as he stood, coiling her whips in her hands; as his eyes met hers she tossed her head, the gesture beckoning.

Siegfried did not need to be told twice.  Feinting right in a hope to draw her off-balance, he rolled abruptly back to the left and sprang forward.

_Crack!_

Swearing as Ivy's leading whip slashed across his path, he was forced to break his charge yet again.  He tried cutting to back to his right, but her second lash unfurled as he did so and he backed off rather than invite its sting; apart from the pain it promised, the rules they had agreed upon meant that any solid hit would be considered incapacitating.  Frustration fueled his simmering anger as he gave ground, falling back out of range.

That did not satisfy Ivy; she advanced on him steadily, whip spiraling about her as she sneered, "Running, _boy_?  You won't win many battles _that_ way, either.  Is this how your father taught you to fight?"

Barely had the words left her lips when Siegfried hurled himself at her.  This time he ignored the stinging lashes of her first whip as it slashed across his back, his entire consciousness focused on wiping that damned _smirk_ off her face.  

"Yes…" she hissed, "_Yes_!  _That's_ it!"  Her voice was savage, gleeful: "Put your _heart_ into it!  Go ahead – _hate_ me!"

He hardly needed to be encouraged in _that_ regard at the moment.  He was upon her now, too close for her use her whips properly; gripping the weapon like the staff it was rather than the sword it had been playing the part of, he slammed one end into her stomach and as the breath rushed from her lungs snapped the other end around into her side.  As it impacted, her gauntleted fist – now empty – smashed across his face, the sharp-edged plates tearing skin and trailing blood.

The blow gave him barely a moment's pause and Ivy was still off-balance as he resumed the attack.  He pushed her steadily back towards the edge of the deck with a flurry of strikes at her head and torso which she barely blocked on her battle sleeve; on the final blow she caught the staff in her right hand, but before she could capitalize he drove forward, slamming her backwards into the railing.

The impact loosened her hold and he ripped the staff out of her grip, clamping it across her throat as his weight pinned her to the railing.  Ivy grabbed his forearms, trying to break his stranglehold, but Schtauffen's strength was fed by anger and frustration and his grip remained fast.  Baring gritted teeth she clamped her left hand onto his bicep, the gauntlet's razored talons tearing through cloth and flesh, and raked it back towards her gouging bloody wounds the length of the arm.

_That_ tearing pain penetrated even his fury and Siegfried released his grip, snarling.  Ivy shoved him backwards and he stumbled to one knee as she gasped for breath, clutching at the nearby rigging for support.  The momentary break allowed the German to shake off his rage and he blinked, disoriented.  As he regained his bearings he threw the stave aside, his expression a mixture of disbelief and horror.

A part of him was exultant, but the larger part was appalled at the loss of control.  Ignoring the pain in his arm he straightened, intent on aiding Ivy, but was halted by her raised hand.

To his astonishment, when she raised her head she was smiling.

"Better, Schtauffen," she rasped, her fingers brushing across the bruises already visible above her high collar.  "_Much_ better."

"Are you out of your _mind_?" he gasped.  "I was trying to _kill_ you!  Is that what you wanted?  Is _that_ what you want to teach me?"

She gave him an odd look as she straightened.  "Teach you?"

 "Were you _trying_ to make me lose control?"  Schtauffen was trembling with shock and anger as he spoke.  "What sort of training is that?  It's not the way I was trained to fight – and it's not the way _you_ fight, either, so why-"

Ivy cut him off:  "You appear to have misunderstood the purpose of the session, Schtauffen.  I am not _trying_ to teach you how to fight."

Schtauffen blinked.  "You're not?"  

"I am not.  You already _know_ how to fight, Schtauffen.  Even when your soul was Inferno's, the skill and the technique was your own.  The problem does not lie in your skill - you are more skilled with a sword than _I_ am.

That took him by surprise.  "You believe so?"

Ivy scowled.  "Yes, but don't let it go to your head, Schtauffen.  I mean that your fundamental technique and battle experience are superior - as well they _should_ be, given that you have studied or lived by the art of the sword most of your life.  

"The _problem_ is that you are afraid to use what you have.  You hold back.  You question your every action.  You are so fearful of what you might do, what that _thing_ within you might unleash, that you are willing to _castrate_ yourself.

"I need you at your best - at your strongest.  _That_ is what this morning was about, and that is what _all_ of our sparring sessions will be about until I'm satisfied that your best is what I have got.  I'm not trying to _teach_ you; I'm trying to _remind_ you."

Siegfried stared at her, his expression disbelieving.  He wanted to argue, to deny her seemingly casual assessment, but in the end he knew she was right – as far as she went.  It was not only Inferno that he feared unleashing, but that part of himself that had chosen to take a path of bloodletting and betrayal before he had ever even _heard_ of the Soul Edge.  

There was, of course, no way he was ever going to tell _her_ that, however.  Instead, he reiterated his point:

"So this _is_ what you wanted?  You expect me to fight like that – without control or discipline?"

"No, of _course_ not," Ivy snapped, "but at the moment you are holding yourself back so severely that the only way to bring out your best is to break your control.  When you are accustomed to your full strength once more, we can work on your discipline."

"My… discipline?"  Siegfried repeated dubiously.  There had been something very unnerving in Ivy's tone.

"Yes."  Her voice made the word a sibilant promise of pain to come.  "Believe me - I'm looking forward to _that_."

*****

Agathe, Viscountess de Moys, uttered a rather unladylike curse as she dropped her sword, her fingers numb.  She repeated the curse – her repertoire of such terms was not extensive – as she tried to shake feeling back into her fingers, all too aware of the troubled gaze that followed her movements in silence.

She was tired and sore, burdened by the unfamiliar weight of armour and shield, wearied by the unaccustomed exercise of sword work, and she knew he must see it.  She knew she must look a fool, a spoiled child playing at serious work, yet she would not yield to those voices both within and without that berated her for her folly.  Grimacing she shut out the complaints of her body and mind and stooped to retrieve the heavy sword.

She paused then, taking but a moment to catch her breath and allow her arm another heartbeat's rest before burdening it once more with the weapon.

"Madame… you're exhausted."  Christophe Bernard's voice was at once solicitous and reproving.  Gathering the sword she straightened, meeting his somber gaze defiantly.

"I _am_ exhausted." she agreed, nodding.  She could not recall ever _being_ so weary.  "And yet," at this she turned to face him squarely, forcing her tired arm to raise the blade, "we shall continue."

The soldier's single eye narrowed in a mixture of confusion, concern and irritation.  "Madame… this is _pointless_."  He gestured at the sword, wavering in her grip.  "You can barely raise that blade, and indeed why _should_ you?  You could train for a year and not hope to challenge _my_ sword, to say nothing of our enemy's."

"I _know_ that!" Agathe snapped, her temper flaring; her native German accent grew harsher in her anger.  "Do you think me _such_ a fool that I plan to fight him myself?"

Bernard drew back, as startled by the venom in her tone as she herself was - she had always prided herself on her level-headedness.  _You're starting to crack up_, she cautioned herself.  _Your temper gets shorter every passing day_.  It took a conscious effort to regain her equilibrium; the strain of the past few months, she supposed, was making itself felt.

Nevertheless, when she spoke again her voice was calmer.  "I have no illusions about besting Schtauffen in single combat, Captain; you may rest easy on that account."  She offered a wan smile.  "I am sorry to have spoken so harshly.  I know you are moved by concern."

"Of course he is.  We are all concerned for your safety, Viscountess, particularly when you insist upon playing such dangerous games."

The Viscountess started at the new voice, but mastered herself sufficiently to turn slowly towards it; Bernard's eye narrowed grimly as he did the same.  A tall figure leaned against the doorframe, arms folded across his chest.  As Agathe turned to face him he straightened and bowed smoothly.

The respectful gesture did not deceive her.  She could feel the mocking smile on his shadowed face.

"Well.  _Lord_ Raphael." she said levelly, careful to screen the mixed emotions which simmered under her surface, "So, at last you return."  Once again, she noted with displeasure, his mere presence unsettled her, conjuring a troubling frisson of sensation that shivered her recently established calm, but she kept it from her voice as she continued, turning away casually: "I had begun to wonder if you had abandoned us."

Sorel straightened, pacing slowly closer.  Agathe did not allow herself to react, though she was acutely aware of his approach.  "I have not," he replied softly.  "I told you that I had other avenues of investigation to pursue, did I not?"

"You did," she admitted as she turned back to face him, a little startled by just how near he had drawn, "though you did not go so far as to detail them."

He smiled at that - a dangerous, arrogant smile that roused equal parts ire and… _other_ sensations that she did not care to examine.  "I have my secrets, Viscountess.  We all do."

The smug assurance with which he made the assertion smothered those uncomfortable emotions and fanned the flames of her anger.  "I have kept nothing from _you_, my lord.  Do not assume that simply because _you_ veil your motives and goals, everyone must do the same."

Sorel's smile merely broadened at her retort.

"Your forthrightness is entertaining, Viscountess," he replied after a moment, "but it is also dangerous.  Reveal your hand at the beginning of the game, and the game is already over." 

"I am not _playing_ a game, my lord," Agathe replied coldly, "I am seeking vengeance.  I am in deadly earnest."

Sorel bowed his head in acknowledgment.  "I do not doubt your dedication, Viscountess," his eyes swept over her, sweaty, burdened and graceless in her armour, "merely your wisdom.  If you _do_ seek to challenge Schtauffen yourself, you are a fool."  At this Bernard took a half-step forward, his expression outraged, only to be stopped by an abrupt gesture from the Viscountess.  Sorel continued as though nothing had happened.  "On the other hand, if - as you say - you do _not_ seek to fight him, why trouble yourself with this?"  Leaning closer he rapped a knuckle against her breastplate; flushing furiously, she took a reflexive step backwards to his unconcealed amusement. 

"I am not such a complete ingénue as you seem to believe, my lord," the Viscountess' voice trembled with a mixture of indignation and anger at his amused contempt, "There are other dangers we might face.  For instance, perhaps you are not yet aware that our quarry appears now to have joined forces with the Englishwoman, Valentine."  She watched him closely, awaiting some reaction to the news.

When it appeared it took her by surprise; if anything, Sorel looked even more pleased with himself than before.  "Captain Dietrich told me what you had discovered, including the Lady Valentine's apparent involvement."

"You don't think that this new alliance is a problem?"

"I very much doubt that any association between Schtauffen and Isabella Valentine merits so strong a term as _alliance_," the Frenchman replied, "They will use one another only until it ceases to be convenient."

_Like you and I?_ Agathe wondered.  She searched his face for any hint of his thoughts, but nothing showed through his veneer of easy superiority.  Not for the first time she wondered if joining forces with the enigmatic nobleman had not been a very poor decision on her part; Sorel was clearly playing his own game, and using her finances and resources to do so.

She shook the thought off, angry at herself for her doubts.  The Frenchman's games were irrelevant to her; if he helped her to achieve her own goal, why should she care if he had his own reasons for doing so?  _Vengeance is the only thing that matters, _she reminded herself_.  His motives are not your concern - and if he helps you achieve your own, your entire fortune is not too great a price to pay._

Her determination bolstered, she unconsciously squared her shoulders as she spoke again:  "What, then, would you suggest we do next?"

"The Countess' involvement presents at least as many opportunities as difficulties," Sorel replied.  "Where Schtauffen on his own requires hunting, the Lady may be baited – and while Schtauffen remains in her company, so can he."

The Viscountess frowned.  "Exactly how do you mean to do that?  I assume that Captain Dietrich told you that we lost their trail in Bastia."

"He did." Sorel concurred, "However, the Lady in question has a number of contacts and agents, some of whom I am aware.  I have no doubt that a properly arranged… invitation will reach her."

"You're certain you have bait that will tempt her?"

Sorel chuckled mirthlessly.  "That is the _least_ of our concerns.  Where _she_ is concerned there is one particular bait that is entirely irresistible."

The Viscountess waited for him to elaborate, but it came as no surprise to her that he did not.  Setting her jaw, she continued with her questions.

"And where do you suggest we lay this trap?"

"I rather thought that your chateau would be appropriate, Lady Agathe.  Where better to set the stage than at the heart of your own power?"

Agathe opened her mouth to argue and then stopped short.  He had a point, she had to admit - she would much rather face Schtauffen on her own ground than somewhere out in the wild world.  She could not help but doubt that Sorel's consideration stemmed from concern for her comfort, however; likely he was merely making best use of his erstwhile ally's resources once again.

"It appears that you have thought of everything, my lord."  Agathe bowed her head stiffly as she spoke.

"May I take it that I have your agreement, then?"

"Yes… yes.  We shall proceed as you have suggested.  Kindly make your preparations."  

Sorel bowed smoothly.  As he straightened she caught a glimpse of his darkly satisfied expression before wheeled and strode from the room.

Agathe remained where she stood until he had left, then slumped wearily.  _You are well out of your depth, girl_, she thought - not for the first time.

In spite of her haughty final words she was painfully aware that she had not been in control of the discussion; once more, he had maneuvered her to the decision he had desired.

Bad enough that he should so easily handle her; even worse, she thought, was that she _knew_ she had been played and yet could do nothing about it.  His plan _sounded_ reasonable, and while she was an intelligent woman she lacked any expertise in the sort of endeavour she was now involved in.  She needed his aid, and they both knew it.  

Worse yet was the fact that in his presence she simply couldn't seem to _think_ straight.  A part of it was fear, she admitted; another part, she supposed, was anger at his ill concealed disdain for her in spite – or perhaps because - of her superior social rank. 

She sighed.  If she were wholly honest with herself – as she had once prided herself on being – there was something more to it, a frightening mixture of physical and emotional attraction which defied and clouded her better judgement.

She was snapped out of her introspection by the realization that she was being addressed.  Startled, she wheeled on the speaker.

"_What_?"  The question came out rather more harshly than she had intended.  "Oh… Captain.  I'm sorry… what did you say?"

The soldier regarded her gravely.  "Did you wish to continue training, my lady?"

Agathe hesitated.  She was tired, and irritated, and more than a little unsettled by her wayward emotions; she was accustomed to keeping her feelings under tight rein.  Being an emotional mess was a novelty to her, and she hated it.

She needed something to focus on.

"Yes, thank you, Captain."

She saw the disappointment in his eyes; he had hoped perhaps that she might have been dissuaded.  _I'm sorry, Christophe, but you don't understand any more than Raphael does._

She took up her position, hefting sword and shield uncomfortably.

"If I may say something, my lady?"  Bernard had taken his position opposite her.  Agathe nodded, smiling wearily.

"Always, Captain."

He nodded in acknowledgement.  "If I may… Lord Raphael is not to be trusted."

Her smile became wry.  "I know that, Captain, thank you."  

As she spoke, though, the memory of those brilliant, piercing eyes and that mocking, infuriating smile came unbidden to her mind's eye, and a shiver ran along her spine.

"Still…" she added after a moment, "it would perhaps be for the best if you were to remind me - from time to time."

*****

Siegfried stretched, spreading his arms wide and back, and winced as his abused body communicated its outrage at the movement with a score of painful twinges.  With a harsh breath he released the tension in his frame, slumping forward to lean heavily on the taffrail, his gaze skimming across the starlit sea.

The call of his name drew his attention from the sea; turning, he moved towards where Ivy knelt on the main deck.  A small trunk lay open on the deck at her side and she was carefully drawing its contents forth; even in the moonlight he could see that the devices were things of beauty - elaborately crafted artifacts of polished brass and dark, gleaming wood.  As he neared, she gave him an appraising glance.

"You seem to be in some discomfort, Schtauffen."

"One can only wonder _why_," he replied, more than a touch of sarcasm colouring his mild tone.

Ivy straightened, her own movements a little stiff.  Taking his chin roughly in gloved fingers, she turned his head to examine the cheek her gauntlet had torn that morning.  She raised a fine brow.

"You're healing quickly," she observed, no surprise in her tone as she released her grip.  Schtauffen shrugged, rubbing absently at his chin.

"Yeah," he muttered, "I do…"

"Mm."  Ivy turned back to her work, crouching by the trunk.  After a moment she continued:  "You know why that is, don't you?"

He closed his eyes.  "Yeah."

For a long time he had tried to ignore it, shrugging off his body's extraordinary capacity for recovery from injury as the benefit of hard-won fitness.  Part of him had known better, of course, had guessed the ugly truth:  the power was not his own.

It was, after all, in Inferno's interest to keep its host healthy.

Schtauffen stalked to the railing, forcing his attention outward; while it was one thing to accept the truth, it was quite another to dwell upon it.  He was determined not to do the latter.

With an effort he managed to lighten his tone when he spoke next, shifting away from the unpleasant subject to ask the question that had been nagging at him since Ivy had announced their next destination.

"So… what interests us in Piraeus?"

Even as he asked, he had a grim intuition that he knew the answer.  After all, Ivy clearly knew quite a bit about Taki, whose entire life was shrouded in secrecy; it was no great stretch to believe that she could know about Sophie, whose home on the outskirts of Athens was less than half a day's journey from the port of Piraeus.  He could not imagine what the Englishwoman might want from the young Greek, but he doubted her interest would be benevolent.

"Piraeus is merely where we will put ashore," Ivy replied, her tone a little distant as she concentrated on her work, "my business is in Athens."

"Athens...  right," Siegfried muttered, nodding, "and what business is that?"

"From what I made of the document we found in the vault, it appears that the Fu-Ma were bound there after their business in the Money Pit.  If that is so, then we may yet have a chance at recovering the fragment they took."

"Makes sense," Schtauffen agreed, "but why are _they_ headed to Piraeus?"

Ivy took a moment to reply.  "Of that… I am uncertain.  I have an acquaintance in Athens who may be able to shed some light on the subject, though."

"And who's that?"

"So many _questions_," Ivy observed sardonically, "I can only hope that you will prove as eager to learn what I am actually trying to teach you."

"And **_I_** can only hope," Schtauffen retorted, turning to face her, "that your teaching is more informative and less self-satisfied than your usual conversation."

Though she did not look up from her work, Ivy smiled at his reply.  It was, he thought, a markedly more attractive expression when it was not made at his expense.

Taking the opportunity her rare good mood offered, he pressed the question:  "So are you going to tell me who this mysterious acquaintance is?"

Ivy rolled her eyes.  "His name is Qasim ben-Nadir," she said after a few moments, "an occultist, scholar and alchemist.  His knowledge of the Soul Edge is… extensive.  He may have some information which will be of use to us."

"If he knows that much don't you think that _he_ might be what they're after?"

He was startled to witness a flicker of real concern cross her face.  Had he not been looking at her – had he even blinked - he would have missed it, so swift was she to marshal her features to neutrality.

"I do not."  Her voice was perfectly calm and level; if he had not seen her reaction with his own eyes he would have believed her.

After a moment he decided against calling her on her deception – it would gain him nothing but her ire.  There was, after all, at least one other avenue through which he could pursue the matter.  For the time being he turned the conversation to another concern.

"Well… can we _trust_ him?"  Scholarly wisdom was all well and good, but he was inclined to be suspicious of anyone who had gone out of their way to study the demonic blade.  His present company was rather a case in point.

Ivy replied without looking up.  "Yes."

He frowned slightly at her response, which had come a little too quickly.  "You're certain?  If he-"

She straightened to glare at him coldly, her good humour now gone.  "I said _yes_."  Her abrupt, icy tone made it very clear that she considered the matter closed.

"If you say so." Siegfried's own tone made it clear that he was not convinced but merely conceding the point for the time being.  Ivy glowered at him a second longer before turning her back on him brusquely and attending to her devices.

_What was that about?_ Schtauffen wondered.  The intensity of her reactions had taken him aback and sparked his curiosity, but by the same token it was clear he wasn't going to get any more out of Ivy on the subject.  Indeed when she spoke again it was almost as though the exchange had never taken place, though her tone was still cold.

"We are wasting time.  Let us begin."  She turned to him once more, her face the disdainful mask he knew so well. "Tell me - have you _any_ knowledge of astronomy or astrology?"  Her tone suggested she had no doubt at all that he would answer in the negative.

Siegfried pursed his lips.  "A little," he murmured defensively.  It was not a complete falsehood, he reasoned; he had studied the stars for almost a week with an eye to impressing the pretty sister of one of his fellow students, years ago – but there was really no need for Ivy to know _that_.

Her mouth quirked at his response.  "A _little._" she repeated.  "Better than nothing… I suppose.  Well, then - can you perhaps identify the constellation of Perseus?"

Siegfried raised his eyes to the sky, racking his memory for the answer; to his surprise it came easily.  "There," he sketched the image in the air with his hand as he spoke, "The head… arm… leg…"

"Good."  Ivy's voice was cool, but no longer hostile.  "As I recall, you were sufficiently familiar with Greek mythology to know about Charon.  I suppose it is too much to hope that you would also know anything of Perseus?"

Schtauffen smiled.  Greek mythology, at least, he knew enough about to reply with more confidence; the tales had captured his interest and attention more than most of his schooling.  "He was a prince… a son of Zeus…"  That was half a guess, but he felt fairly confident in it; half of the characters of the mythos seemed to be sons of Zeus.   "He killed the gorgon, Medusa, and rescued the princess Andromeda from the monster Cetus."  He paused, thoughtful.  "What does this have to do with the Soul Edge?"

"Very little."  She was smiling again now – the familiar, mocking expression that he found so ugly.  "I was curious as to how much you might know, however."  

"Delighted to entertain you," the German replied sourly.

"Pouting ill becomes you, Schtauffen."  At his murderous glare she raised a gloved hand.  "Perseus _himself_ is not relevant, but within the astrological mythos surrounding the Soul Edge, the _constellation_ is – and a working knowledge of _Greek_ mythos may prove useful even if it is as basic as your own.  Ares and Hephaestus, for instance, have a more than peripheral role in the Soul Edge's tale."

Schtauffen nodded, conceding the point grudgingly.  "Yes, all right, you've made your bloody point.  Can we get down to the real lesson now?"  He did not bother concealing his ill humour, almost growling the last words.

"There's that enthusiasm again," Ivy's own anger had faded even as his had blossomed.  The mercurial nature of her moods was bewildering, Schtauffen thought irritably; he never knew for certain _how_ she might react.  Navigating even her _good_ moods was like sailing on a smooth sea laced with lethal, invisible reefs.

It was going to be a _long_ night.

*****

"_Ouch!_"

The abrupt exclamation was cut off abruptly as the young woman remembered the absolute need for stealth.  She froze where she stood, listening attentively for any sign that she might have been detected.

The house was silent.  Flexing her foot, she was relieved to discover that the injury was little more than a stubbed toe.  Shifting the weight of the bag she had slung over her shoulder, she picked her way across the room towards the door.

At the threshold she hesitated, glancing back across the darkened room.  She was leaving everything she had ever known, and though she supposed that she would remain in familiar territory for perhaps another day or two, the next step would be the decisive one.

She focused her thoughts on what had set her upon this path, and her resolve hardened.  Squaring her shoulders and brushing aside her doubts, she stepped through the door.

*****

"She left already?"  Schtauffen wondered if he had misheard.  Mackay nodded as he scooped a bowl of fresh water from the barrel; the Scot had been waiting for him on deck when he emerged.  He had risen later than usual, the night's lesson having lasted into the small hours.

"Aye, as soon as we put in."

"Hn." As the German splashed water on his face, dispelling the last vestiges of sleep, he wondered at that.  "Did she say how long she'd be?"

"Three or four days," the Scot replied, "but she said ye should catch her up at her inn tomorrow.  She left this for ye."  He tossed Schtauffen a small pouch which rattled as the German caught it.  Glancing inside Siegfried's eyes widened as they took in the gleam of precious stones within.  "Said it was a gift from the Ferryman - dunno if that means anything."

"Yeah," Schtauffen shook his head, chuckling in spite of himself, "it means something."  Clearly Ivy hadn't been content to abandon _all_ of the wealth they had found in Vercci's tomb; he was no expert, but it seemed clear that she had selected the best stones to bring out with her.  

He was surprised that the revelation didn't bother him more.  _That woman's a bad influence on you, Siegfried._  He smiled to himself at the thought.

Mackay waited a moment for a further explanation, shrugging when it became clear none would be forthcoming.  "Well… if ye say so.  Anyway, her ladyship said ye should see about gettin' outfitted, see if you could get some new armour and anything else ye need while we're here."

"In three days?"  Schtauffen mused, frowning.  That was not nearly enough time to have new armour made; perhaps he could have something refitted.  He turned to look out across the narrow inlet around which Piraeus clustered, narrowing his eyes against the brilliant glare of sunlight on water.

"I know a few places – smiths, I mean, if ye're going to be lookin'."  Mackay offered from behind him.  Turning back, Schtauffen regarded the younger man pensively.

"No, you needn't trouble yourself," he said thoughtfully, "I've been here before."  It would give him a chance to check up on the Alexandra home, assuming he could shake Mackay; there was at least a chance that Ivy didn't know about Sophie and her family yet, and he couldn't risk leading her to them. "I know a few places myself."  

As he said the last he stifled a yawn.  Mackay grinned at him.

"Ye seem a little under the weather, old chum.  Hard lesson last night?"

Siegfried shrugged, stretching.  "Could have been better."  He smiled thinly.  "Suppose it could have been worse, though."  Ivy had revealed a clear passion for her subject matter that had actually proved rather infectious, making the session much more bearable than expected - but she had proved neither more patient nor more forgiving than she had when they were sparring.  "She hates having to explain things more than once, so you can guess how things turned out…"

Mackay chuckled.  "Told ye she didn't suffer fools gladly, din' I?"

Schtauffen gave the Scotsman a wry glance.  "I suppose you did."  He shook his head.  "Probably would have gone a little better if I hadn't gotten on the wrong side of her even before we started."

"How'd ye manage that?" The Scot's tone was curious, but hardly surprised.

"Asked the wrong question, apparently."  Looking at Mackay, his gaze became speculative.  "Alastair… you know anything about a fellow called Qasim… what was it, Binadir?"

"Qasim ben-Nadir?  Yeah, I know him.  Well – I've _met_ him.  Run a few messages between her ladyship and him, and her father too.  Why?"

Siegfried's eyebrows rose.  "He was an associate of her father's?"  he asked, ignoring Mackay's question.

"Aye, even before I came into the picture- ten, fifteen years maybe."

"Were they friends?"

"Don't know if I'd say _that_ exactly," Mackay replied, "Far as I know they only ever met a couple of times.  Wrote each other quite a bit, though.  Guess they were friends_,_ but not really close, if ye know what I'm sayin'."

"Yes," Schtauffen murmured, "I know what you're saying."  He remained silent a while longer, drumming calloused fingers on the edge of the water barrel.  A part of him was hesitant to pursue the matter further, but he quashed its objections.  "What'd you make of him?"

"Who, ben-Nadir?"  At Schtauffen's nod Mackay shrugged, "Dunno.  Seemed okay – younger than I thought he'd be.  Spoke English pretty well.  Polite."  He noticed Schtauffen's deepening frown.  "Well, what do you want me to say?  I just ran messages to the guy."

"What about Ivy?  She friendly with this ben-Nadir?"

"I suppose," Mackay replied dubiously, "- As much as she ever is, I guess."

"Meaning…?"

"Well, ye know…"  The Scotsman's brow furrowed, "What do _ye_ care about 'im anyway?"  His eyes narrowed in realization.  "Damn it, if her ladyship wouldn't tell ye about him, she wouldn't want _me_ tellin' ye either."

_Blast_.  Schtauffen sighed inwardly; he had hoped to get more before Mackay realized what was going on.  "I'm not trying to get you to betray her confidence, Alastair," _At least, not without reason_, "but there's a lot at stake here.  I don't know anything about this ben-Nadir fellow, but Ivy was… adamant that he could be trusted."

"There ye go, then," Mackay snapped, "that should be enough for ye.  She don't trust easy."

"She doesn't trust at _all_," Schtauffen retorted, "and you _know_ it.  So what makes this man special?"

"How the hell would I know?  Maybe nothin', maybe she don't trust him and didn't want ta tell ye!"

"I thought of that," Siegfried admitted, his voice lowering, "but why would she bother lying about it?"

Mackay, his own flare of anger subsiding a little, shrugged.  "Look… he's been a friend of the family for years.  There… why shouldn't that be all there is to it?"

Siegfried nodded slowly.  Perhaps, he mused, he _was_ making too much of it.  In any case, it was clear that Mackay wasn't going to tell him any more.  "I don't know…" he nodded, resignedly.  "I don't know.  Maybe you're right." 

"Ye don't have ta sound so surprised," Mackay said, smiling.  "It does happen now an' then."

Schtauffen chuckled.  "By all means keep believing that, Alastair."

Mackay's only responses were an upthrust finger and a smirk.  Siegfried smiled, a little relieved; he had no desire to alienate the Scot, whose usual good humour was a welcome change from Ivy's company.  

Abruptly, the Scot straightened, scooping up a traveling bag from the deck.  "Well, if ye don't need a guide I've things ta be getting' on with."

"'Things'?"  Schtauffen inquired.

"Aye," Mackay grinned, "_Things_.  I'll be gone a couple o' days, I reckon.  See ye then, right?"  At Siegfried's nod he turned and trotted towards the gangway, pausing briefly to turn back.  "Oh, her ladyship'll be stayin' at the Three Pillars, on Omonia Square, if ye're lookin' for her.  Nice place - bit pricey though.  If ye want somewhere a little-"

"Thank you, Alastair, I'll find it myself," Schtauffen replied a little hastily.  After hearing several tales of the Scotsman's travels and Rousseau's description of the Albatross he had reached the conclusion that Mackay's taste in accommodation was a little too lowbrow even for him.

_Fine words for a man who lived in a leaky shack two weeks ago_, he admonished himself.

Smiling at the thought, he turned to the stairs, descending to his cabin to collect his few possessions.  

If he hurried, he reckoned he could reach the smithy by noon.  At which point… at which point he would have to make a decision, he supposed.  The thought was sobering.

Whichever choice he made, he thought glumly, he would not enjoy the experience.

*****

Khalil ibn Haji stared at the empty room.

_Nothing_.

There was nothing, no sign of what had transpired here, no hint or clue as to the fate of the six men and women who had made this house their base of operations as little as a week prior.  

"Not a trace," Jibril muttered behind him.  Khalil nodded agreement, turning to face the older man.  The lack of evidence was in itself diagnostic, he knew, though he did not like what it told him.  

"It's the Fu-Ma," he growled.  He could feel the old anger rising within him and marshaled it carefully, focusing its energy on his task.

"You believe so? It has been years since we have heard anything of them," Jibril replied cautiously.  Though his words suggested doubt, his tone did not - he knew, as Khalil himself did, that there was no other likely explanation.

"I am certain," the younger man replied.  "Who else could do this?  No, there is no doubt."

It was bad news, to be sure, but a part of the young man rejoiced at the revelation.  The Fu-Ma were opponents worthy of his best, and such challenges were few and far between.  The chance to prove himself and his assassins against their longtime enemies was something he welcomed.

"You do not seem overly troubled by this discovery," Jibril observed grimly, "Don't allow your eagerness for a challenge to supercede your duty to the order."

Khalil smiled under his mask; his second knew him too well.  "Don't worry, old man.  I can enjoy this challenge without neglecting my responsibilities."  He cast one final glance around the empty room.  "Gather the others.  We ought not to linger."

Jibril bowed sharply and strode from the room, leaving ibn Haji to consider his options.  At the moment, he knew, his people were vulnerable; they did not know where the enemy was and there was a slim possibility they themselves might already have been spotted, though he had confidence in the scouts who had reported the area clear earlier.  It was more likely that the enemy, having eliminated the order's established presence, had already moved on to their real target

He had little doubt as to what that target might be; the primary responsibility of the Athens team was to keep an eye on the hated champion of Hephaestus who dwelt less than five miles away.  That was the next logical place to look, but he would need to proceed carefully - 

His ruminations were interrupted by the crash of a door being flung open and the excited chatter of voices from the next room.  Though he did not react outwardly he was instantly alert, fingers resting on the hilt of the curved sword that hung by his side as he listened to the clamour.  He recognized Fayiz' voice, eager and filled with urgency in sharp contrast to Jibril's calmer tone.

A faint smile touched his lips.  Fayiz was new to his group, having finished training at Alamut only a month before, and his eagerness to serve refused to be contained by the discipline that training should have instilled.  Jibril had commented disapprovingly on the matter on more than one occasion, but Khalil had decided to allow the younger warrior some leeway; he too had been young once, while it seemed sometimes that Jibril had been born to middle age.  

Fayiz' voice calmed as the two spoke, while the older man's acquired an edge it had previously lacked.  The change drew Khalil's attention more than the previous outburst; it took a lot to unsettle Jibril's even demeanour.  Grasping his sword-hilt, he turned as their footsteps approached.

He met them at the door, acknowledging their deep bows with a nod.  "What brings you back so early, Fayiz?  Have you made contact with the alchemist?"

"Forgive me, _Seif__ al Din_," Fayiz bowed so deep Khalil wondered that he did not topple over, "but we have not.  When we arrived at his workshop he already had a visitor – the Lady Valentine."

Khalil exchanged grim looks with Jibril.  "You are certain it is she?" he asked, though there was little chance of error.

Fayiz nodded sharply.  "She is exactly as she is described, master, unmistakable."

_Indeed_, Khalil thought wryly.  She had never been one to blend in with the crowd.  More importantly, she was not one whose appearance at this time and place could be considered simple happenstance – there must be some connection between her arrival and the Fu-Ma's reappearance.  _Could they be working together_?  It seemed unlikely, but not impossible; he had come across stranger alliances.

"You say she met with the Alchemist?"

"Yes," Fayiz nodded, "She was at his workshop when we arrived."

Khalil nodded, thoughtfully.  ben-Nadir had been under the order's watchful eye for years, though even at his exalted rank he was not entitled to know exactly why.  His connection with the Lady Valentine - and her father before her - was long-standing but the Order had never attempted to interfere with it.

"They are still under watch?"

The young man nodded once more.  "Riaz remained while I came to report."

"Excellent.  Jibril, return to our ship and dispatch a bird to Master Nadijah in Istanbul.  Tell her what we have discovered and that we shall need reinforcements - everything she can send.  Send word also to Alamut and the Temple."

Fayiz looked up, startled.  "Master, she is but one.  Why send for aid?"

Jibril frowned at the question, and on this occasion Khalil concurred with the veteran's implicit disapproval.  "You forget your place, Fayiz.  These are my orders and it is not for you to question them."

Admonished, the youth dropped to one knee, lowering his head in apology as Khalil turned his attention back to his second.  "Ready the others before you go – I want close watch kept on the Countess from now on.  She must have something to do with what happened here, and if she _is_ now working alongside the Fu-Ma we will need to proceed very carefully."

Jibril nodded curtly and strode away, Fayiz following in his wake.  Khalil closed the door behind them, his face a mask of concentration.  He had much to consider.

*****

AUTHOR'S NOTES…

Hello, again.

I should probably be more apologetic for the tardiness, but my sense of guilt is considerably outweighed by my pleasure at FINALLY finishing this chapter.  It's been hard, it's been fun… it's been incredibly frustrating… but here it is.

A couple of notes…

One reviewer quite rightly pointed out that there's not been a lot of romance in this fic… and (s)he has a good point.  I considered removing 'Romance' from the classification, but have decided to retain it since it is, in the end, the reason I'm writing it.  If you've been lured here under false pretences, I apologize and feel obliged to warn you – it's still a ways away (further away every chapter, it seems).

Okay.  Point two – OFCs.  There're quite a few of them, I know, and more to come – and I know that I, for one, read fiction on ff.net for the canon characters and not OFCs.  I hope to keep them interesting, but they're there to support the action, certainly not overshadow the canon cast.  Let me know if you think I'm slipping in that regard.

Point three – my author's notes are too long, but you already know that.  Sorry.

I'm optimistic about turnaround on Chapter 8 - but then you've heard that before, haven't you?  

All my thanks, and apologies, go out once again to my reviewers, without whom God only knows how long this would have taken to write.  You're the bee's knees.

Well, that's it.  It's goodnight from me, and it's goodnight from… well… me… (will anybody get that?).  Till next time!

Oh, and remember: ALL YOUR BASE ARE BELONG TO US!!!!

Ahem.


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